


My True Love Gave To Me

by LayALioness



Series: 12 Days of Bellarke! [13]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Today was nice," she offers, voice sounding strange in the otherwise silent bit of night around them. It's like they're in a little bubble all their own, just above the rest of existence. "I wish it wouldn't end."</p><p>"That's possible, you know," Bellamy offers, and she peeks one eye open, to look at him. "It's Christmas. Everyone knows that when you make a wish on Christmas, it's likelier to come true."</p>
            </blockquote>





	My True Love Gave To Me

**Author's Note:**

> OK I was originally just going to end this series at 12 but then the trailer came out and I decided we all needed a little happy. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I have never seen Groundhog Day. But I have seen that one disney movie about Donald Duck's nephews, who wish it was Christmas everyday, and get stuck in a time loop. So, you know. That's basically what this is.
> 
> Title from 12 Days of Christmas

Clarke is just biding her time, waiting for what has been the worst year of her life to be over, so _forgive her_ , if she's not that excited about some Christmas house party, which is really just an excuse for a bunch of teenagers to get drunk and make out a lot under mistletoe. There was almost an orgy in the kitchen, last time. Eggnog got everywhere, until everything was sticky, including her. It was the worst.

But she's also gotten pretty close to Octavia this year; whereas the last few years, Clarke was only invited as a sort of peripheral guest, because Octavia tends to invite anyone within the tri-state area, this year she actually considers O to be one of her best friends, and she'd feel a bit shitty if she didn't at least make a quick appearance, just to drop off her gift. Plus, it's not like she has any other plans--her mother's made sure of that.

Their call started out innocently enough--Clarke just wanted to double-check the dates for her flight out, to visit. It's her sophomore year of college, and two months ago she found out her boyfriend was already in a long-term, long-distance relationship with his childhood sweetheart, and Clarke really just needed to spend two weeks gorging herself on a build-your-own gingerbread house, and watch the Muppets' _A Christmas Carol_ , like twelve times.

But instead, her mom said "Oh, I thought we might do something different this year, so I booked us on a cruise!"

And it wasn't really her mom's fault, Clarke knows, but they'd been a little off ever since her dad died back in March, and she can't imagine spending Christmas on a giant boat in the Caribbean. Christmas is supposed to be at home, where her dad used to be. She was going to lay flowers and a tea light on his grave, on Christmas Eve.

She should have just mentioned that, she realizes in hindsight, but at the time she was still reeling from the emotional turmoil of the Finn Fiasco, and her winter finals, and just the premed courseload in general--which was another thing she'd wanted to talk to her mom about, over break, but clearly now that was not going to happen--and the thought of her first Christmas without her dad, and she snapped.

She said a lot of things she wishes she could take back, but isn't really ready to. Clarke's never been the type to apologize first, and her mom said some shitty things too, because they're more alike than either of them want to admit, really. Jake had always been the buffer, giving a long-suffering sigh before stepping in between them, and making them work it out with gentle prods and soft smiles. _You shouldn't go to bed angry_ , he'd always say. _You'll just wake up with a sore back._

But now there was no Jake to talk them both through it, to make Abby leave an apology on her voicemail, or to text Clarke and then put her mom on the phone. There was just them, and their bitter, pointed words, and the hollow dial tone when Clarke hung up while Abby was still mid-sentence. She'd turned her phone off immediately but it's back on by now, and there aren't any missed messages. It's been nine days, and now it's Christmas Eve.

Campus is, technically, closed, but Clarke's staying in Wells's co-op with three of his roommates that also aren't going home for break. Nyko's an exchange student from Brazil, Luna grew up in foster care and has so far spent most of the season holed up in her room, blasting all-girl k-pop bands at full volume, and Lexa hasn't bothered explaining her home life, but people have learned not to ask. Wells offered to stay with her, but she knows he likes to spend his break visiting his mom in the hospital, so she promises to text him daily, and then sends him home.

The co-op, for the most part, is nice. It's substance-free, which is a little annoying since it means if Clarke wants to get drunk in her pajamas, she has to go sit on the public bench fifteen feet down the sidewalk. But it's cold, and also technically illegal, so she usually just drinks at O's, instead. Also, all of the people who live there are raw vegans, and while Clarke's _allowed_ to eat whatever she wants there, she can feel them judging her each time she makes beef ramen on the stove.

So, Octavia's house has become Clarke's safe space for the holiday, but even that has it's draw backs. Octavia's popular, and somehow seems to know _everyone_ , so the house is almost never empty. And even if, on the rare occasion, Clarke does manage to stop by on a day where there aren't half a dozen other freshmen battling it out on the Game Cube, it's still never just her and Octavia, because her brother is always there.

Clarke hasn't spent much time with Bellamy Blake, but the time she has spent with him, she has not enjoyed. Usually he's just unsociable, wandering in and out in a pair of threadbare sweatpants, grunting a little when he walks by. Sometimes he'll sit down to play The Last of Us with them, but usually he's running late to one of his many odd jobs.

But occasionally she'll catch him on a bad day, or she won't be in the mood for his offhanded snarkiness, and they'll be at each other's throats within minutes. Octavia thinks it's hilarious. Everyone else seems pretty evenly split between thinking they're going to kill each other one day, or jump each other's bones.

For the most part, though, she and Bellamy just ignore each other, or keep their personal battles to virtual reality, where they mostly just shit talk and try to kick each other's ass, even when they're supposed to be on the same time. It's gotten to the point where no matter what the game is, everyone else simply refuses to play if both of them are holding a controller.

It's just past seven o'clock, and Octavia's just sent a text saying _where r u??_ so Clarke decides to head over. She runs into Luna on the staircase, for the first time in like three days, so she's glad to see the other girl is at least still alive. Dressed in the same clothes from three days ago and looking like she hasn't showered in five years, but. Alive.

"Where are you going?" she asks, with a frown. Her eyes are all red and puffy, like she's been crying, but Clarke's never really been the best at comfort; that's Wells's job. Plus she's only known Luna for like two months.

She pats her shoulder a little awkwardly. "My friend's having a Christmas party," she says, uncertain. "You want to come?" Octavia probably won't mind. Bellamy probably will, but he can suck it up.

"I'm Jewish," Luna sniffs, and Clarke shrugs.

"I'm pretty sure everyone's just going to get wasted and dance to some truly awful dubstep, so, you know. Non-denominational party stuff, that just happens to be on Christmas Eve."

Luna shakes her head, but there's the ghost of a smile playing at her mouth, so Clarke counts it a victory. "You go ahead--Lexa's already there, I'm pretty sure."

Clarke squints at her. "Lexa knows Octavia?" It wouldn't be _that_ out of the ordinary; Octavia Blake knows _everyone_.

"She's friends with her brother, apparently. They're in the same spin class. They get drunk and watch soccer at the sports bar downtown."

Clarke isn't really sure what to do with this information, so she puts it away for later, as Luna heads back upstairs. She knows less about Lexa than she does Bellamy--mostly, she just knows she's hot and intense, majoring in fashion design, with a girlfriend at NYU that she has very loud skype sex with, which everyone passive aggressively complains about in the mornings.

And, apparently, she is drunk soccer hooligan friends with Bellamy Blake, which. Well, it's a little disconcerting. Clarke didn't think Bellamy Blake _had_ any friends, or at least, any that weren't insufferable, like Dax and Murphy.

This winter has been more rainy than anything else, and there's a thick layer of gray slush Clarke has to kick through, on her walk to the Blake's house. It's the sort of Craftsman this area's rife with--a two-story, a little shabby, with a wide-brimmed porch and a roof perfect for climbing onto and sprawling out like a starfish, to tan in the hot summer months, like she and Octavia did for all of August.

The house is already lit up for Christmas, with a few tasteful strings of gold lights wrapped around the edge of the roof, and twisted around the porch columns, like vines. There's a glow-in-the-dark Santa in the front yard, too, which she's pretty sure is Octavia's doing, but other than that, the decorations are relatively sparse. There's light on in the inside, of course, with each room lit up a pale yellow. And there's music, the dubstep she was expecting, and it's every bit as terrible, Jersey-Shore as she was afraid it would be.

Clarke shoots Wells a last-minute _happy xmas eve!!_ just in case she forgets to, when she's drunk--because she is absolutely getting drunk, tonight. It's bad enough she's not allowed to keep her cherry-lime Mike's Hard Lemonade packs in the co-op; she's not missing out on a night of whatever crazy discount alcohol Monty and Jasper have brought from the weird Korean bodega on Monty's block, where nothing that they sell is in English, and all the alcohol is either fluorescent blue or swamp-green. One time, it was marmelade-yellow, but everyone was sick for days afterwards, so they never bought it, again.

The front door is propped open with a garden gnome that one of them--probably Octavia, although Miller's their resident kleptomaniac. He can't really seem to help himself; he never goes for anything important, or expensive, but. It's still a problem--most likely stole from one of the neighbor's front lawns. It's painted to look like Santa Claus, except the face is a little warped, so he looks like the demented leprochaun from that B horror movie she and Wells saw on late night TV when they were ten.

There aren't as many people as Clarke thought there would be, but it's still a good turnout, with each room filled pretty comfortably, and crowds milling about all throughout. She heads to the kitchen first, since that's guaranteed to have the most booze, and grabs one of the solo cups lined up on the counter. The alcohol's a mixture of green and blue, which means they couldn't decide which kind to get, so they just got both and then mixed them. It tastes like a combination of sweet tea and what she imagines lighter fluid tastes like.

She's still wandering through the house, dodging the dancing students and a few TA's that she recognizes, sipping from her cup from time to time because by now most of her tastebuds have gone numb--when she runs into Bellamy Blake.

It was inevitable, really. She knew he wasn't working tonight, and he lives here, and they always seem to end up togehter one way or another. Like a pair of magnets, in Hell.

"Fancy seeing you here," Bellamy smirks, eyeing her headband. He reaches out to flick one of the felt antlers, and she jerks away, a reflex, reaching up to make sure they're not crooked. It was the only bit of festivity she could muster up, gluing some spare felt leftover from a studio project, and tying them to a red headband from Target. It's not her best work, but. It's something, at least. Making things has always been therapeutic for Clarke.

"Let me guess," he muses. "Your reindeer is Vixen."

"Yours must be Prancer," Clarke shoots, gesturing to his _very_ tight sweater, as evidence. Bellamy just smirks, as usual, infuriatingly. His whole face always looks like she should punch it.

He's lucky he's so pretty, or she actually might.

"Charming as usual, I see," he says. "Clearly, the Christmas spirit has done a number on you."

"Oh, piss off," Clarke snaps. She's not actually in the mood for one of their verbal brawls, or any type of brawl, really. She just came to get drunk, and maybe do the twist dance with Octavia, and get sort of stupidly affectionate together, before either passing out in her room upstairs, or stumbling back to the co-op.

She's expecting Bellamy to sneer back at her, call her _princess_ with a little bite to it, and wander off to hook up with some leggy brunette in the downstairs bathroom, like she knows he sometimes does. But instead, he actually looks _concerned_. A little.

"Shit, are you okay?" He looks a little awkward, rubbing at the back of his neck. The movement makes the hem of his sweater rise a few inches, exposing a stripe of freckled, tan skin, the hint of the V of his hipbones. "O told me about your mom."

Clarke squints up at him, and she _knows_ she's gaping, alright? But she can't really help it--she and Bellamy don't _do_ things like this, heart-to-hearts, on principle. They shit talk each other, sometimes with mild _maybe you're not so bad_ kind of affection, and kick each other off the couch a lot. They don't have actual _emotions_ , or if they do, they certainly don't _share_ them.

"How drunk are you?" she asks, suspicious, and he raises a brow.

"Not nearly enough." He studies her for a minute, before he seems to come to a decision and then nods, like he's agreeing with yourself. "And clearly neither are you. Come on." He turns to lead her down the hall, but she frowns, standing her ground like a petulant child. It's just--why is he being so _nice_? It's got to be a joke, or a prank, or something. Maybe he lost a bet.

"Why?"

But Bellamy just tosses a grin over his shoulder at her, looking almost _fond_. It's making her head spin a bit, honestly. "It's Christmas! Everyone enjoys a good Christmas--I'm making sure you get your money's worth."

And, to Clarke's surprise, he does.

Bellamy leads her through all the rooms, making pit stops in each, to either join the pseudo mosh pit started on one of his threadbare rugs from Lowes, or to dominate some drinking came that involves both, quarters and a ping pong ball _and_ Octavia's pet turtles, which someone--most likely Jasper, although Monty probably helped--tied miniature party hats to, made out of folded up toilet paper.

They play an alcoholic version of Go Fish at a fold-out camping table with Fox and Monroe and Roma, and then they play the balloon game with some kids she recognizes from her awful Bio Chem Lab, outside. And Bellamy's actually a pretty good host, making sure she's always comfortable in whatever group they find themselves with, getting her water when she starts getting dizzy, getting her Tostito chips when she complains that her mouth tastes like rum. He even lets her hold onto his arm like an anchor, when her legs become traitors and stop working right.

"You're not very good at this," he grins, and Clarke scowls.

They're on the front porch, playing Never Have I Ever with a bunch of kind-of classmates of hers. None of them really seem to know Bellamy, which makes sense. He's older than the rest of them, already out of school and a bonafide Real Adult, with real adult jobs and real adult problems. As personable as Octavia is, Bellamy's the opposite. He's basically a recluse with like, _three_ friends that Clarke knows of.

"Shut up," she says, but there's no real heat to it. Now that Bellamy's being nice and warm and friendly, it's hard for her to feel irritated with him. "I can't help that I have had a lot of life experiences."

"You _threw a TV out a window_ ," he says, incredulous.

"That was _one_ time," Clarke sniffs.

"Okay, never have I ever had sex with a girl," Monty says, and Clarke and Bellamy take their shots at the same time.

"That is unfair targeting of pussy lovers," Clarke grumbles, and Bellamy pats her head a little, because he's not as sober as he likes to pretend.

She's stumbling up the stairs to use O's bathroom, because the downstairs one is occupied, she's pretty sure by a threesome, when she runs into Raven Reyes.

Clarke only knows Raven's whole name because she'd looked her up in the student directory, the day she'd run into her with Finn. They hadn't had a chance to actually speak, before Clarke realized what it meant, that Raven had just hauled off and kissed her boyfriend in the middle of the quad, and she ran off like a coward. Because that's what Clarke does, really, when she's faced with something she can't handle; she runs.

She got herself together eventually, of course. She texted Finn that it was over, and begged Maya, her roommate, to pick her things up from Finn's dorm. They weren't that important--a stray cardigan that she'd forgotten, or a Chemistry book left behind--but she wanted them, anyway. And that was that; Clarke avoided Finn in the _Intro to Contemporary Art_ class they shared, and listened to a lot of angry feminist punk with Octavia.

But she absolutely does _not_ have herself together now, and Raven is _right_ there, squinting at her a little like she's trying to place her, and Clarke's itching to be gone by the time she finally does.

She ducks into the bathroom without a word, turning the lock just in case. Octavia cleaned before the party, which basically just means all the towels are semi-folded and piled together on one of the shelves, and her collection of half-empty shampoo bottles are stuffed in the metal caddy hanging from the showerhead. The shower curtain has a pattern of electric blue butterflies and Clarke sits on the closed toilet lid and stares at them until her vision goes fuzzy. Then she sets her shoulders, unlocks the door, and steps out.

The hallways isn't empty, but Raven's gone, and Clarke lets out a breath of relief. But she can't really stomach going back down, and possibly running into her, in the kitchen or out on the porch, or in the backyard. So instead, she slips into Octavia's bedroom and heads for the window, sliding first the pane open and then the screen, before crawling out onto the little bit of roof awning that hangs over the side. The roof is that sticky black tiling that gets squishy and hot in the summer, and crumbles in her fingers. She crabwalks as near to the edge as she can, before tugging her knees up to her chin, and looking out over the neighborhood. It's late by now, and dark, but most of the houses are lit up with Christmas lights or lamps inside their living rooms, as they watch _A Christmas Story_ and _It's A Wonderful Life_ , and wait for midnight, so they can open their presents.

The Blake's have a tree downstairs, Clarke had noticed. It's fake, but one of the green ones, so she didn't notice at first. They decorated it with a hodgepodge of store-bought, plain and tasteful ornaments, and the kind a nine year old would make at a Girl Scouts meeting, or a Sunday school class. It's endearing more than anything, in a way that made Clarke's teeth ache, because it's the sort of thing _she_ might have done, when her dad was alive. Christmas was his favorite holiday.

Bellamy finds her, two bottles of Coors in hand, she's not sure from where. She hadn't seen any sort of alcohol downstairs except for Monty's weird Korean stuff, but. Bellamy probably has his own stash somewhere, or something, which is the only reason she takes the beer he offers. Clarke _hates_ racecar beer, and Coors is the _most_ racecar of racecar beers.

She doesn't ask how he knew where to find her. She's not sure she wants to know. She's not sure she's ready to understand why, exactly, they always seem to end up together, whether they want to or not.

Instead, she says "Your DJ sucks," and Bellamy snorts. They can still hear the music, just barely, streaming out and up and around them from downstairs. It's synthetic and pulsating and _awful_.

"Take it up with O." He takes a long drink, staring out over the block like she is, except different, somehow. Where Clarke was _seeing_ the houses, and taking them in, Bellamy seems to be checking them over, like a parent looks through their child's hair for lice. Protective, which makes sense. This is his home. Clarke's just a visitor.

"I got you a present," he says, sudden, and Clarke frowns, watching him dig through the pocket of his jeans.

"I didn't get you anything." She feels a little guilty, but he just waves her off.

"S'fine. I just found this, thought you might like it." He reaches out for her hand, which she gives to him, and he twists it palm-up, before setting something cool and small and metal on her skin.

When Clarke pulls her hand back with the gift, she sees it's a ring. It's old copper, gone green around the edges and all the inside. It's shaped like a crown, with little holes in each of the points, where gemstones used to sit. They were probably the fake kind, just held in with glue, but she can imagine what it must have looked like, brand new. Even as it is, it's still pretty. She slips it onto her middle finger, where it sits a little loose, but not enough to fall past her knuckle.

"Thank you," she says, quiet, so he knows it's real. Bellamy shrugs, but now he's turned that look on her. Like he's studying her for wounds, scrapes or bruises. Something he can try to fix.

But there's nothing, nothing visible anyway, so Clarke just leans all the way back until she's flat on the roof, feet just dangling over the edge. She stares up at the stars, fuzzy and barely-there through all the manmade light around them. "What time is it?"

Bellamy pulls out his phone to check, squinting so he can read the blurry numbers. He's had as much, if not more, as she has to drink, so he _has_ to be a little gone, by now, no matter how much more body mass he's got. "Quarter to midnight. Merry Christmas."

"Not yet," Clarke whispers. She's not sure she wants the night to end--actually, she is sure. She doesn't. She doesn't want to wake up in the morning and have to trudge home, to spend Christmas alone, hungover and streaming _Home Alone 2_ on Netflix. She doesn't want her Christmas dinner to be frosted mini wheats straight from the box. She doesn't want to get a pity call from her best friend, while he's supposed to be spending time with his dying mother. She doesn't want to spend the whole day staring at her phone, waiting for a text or a call or _anything_ from her own mom, even when she knows nothing will come.

She wants to stay on this roof, suspended in this moment, in this day, because it's turned out to not be so shitty. She'll even let Bellamy stay with her, if he wants.

"Today was nice," she offers, voice sounding strange in the otherwise silent bit of night around them. It's like they're in a little bubble all their own, just above the rest of existence. She closes her eyes, eyelashes a cold, faint brush against her cheeks. "I wish it wouldn't end."

"That's possible, you know," Bellamy offers, and she peeks one eye open, to look at him. He's glancing down at her, edges of his mouth turned up around his beer. Hers still sits untouched by her knee. She might still drink it--she's feeling pretty weird, and her standards have been lowered. "It's Christmas. Everyone knows that when you make a wish on Christmas, it's likelier to come true."

Clarke snorts a little, can't help it. But he doesn't seem too bothered, and just shrugs.

"Right, because Santa Claus is just going to freeze time and space for me," she says, wry.

"It's Christmas," Bellamy grins. "Anything can happen."

Clarke hums because she doesn't feel like arguing, and lets her eye fall back closed. It's cold, but by now her bones are numb, so it doesn't really bother her. She's wearing the sweater dress she got at Kohl's, and it's warm enough, with a big cowl neck that makes her feel cozy, like she's bundled up in a blanket. She can hear the scratch of Bellamy's jeans on the tile, as he stretches out beside her. She can feel the heat of his arm, just a breath away from hers.

Downstairs, there's a wave of muffled cheering, which means it's probably midnight. It's officially Christmas, and Clarke is drunk and half-asleep on the roof.

"Merry Christmas, Clarke," Bellamy says, so soft she almost doesn't hear it.

She's asleep before she can say it back.

Clarke wakes to the sound of very loud k-pop that she can't really understand, but wants to dance to, anyway. Luna showed her some Girls' Generation videos, and they looked pretty easy to follow along to.

The music is the first thing Clarke notices. The second thing she notices is that she is not lying on a very chilly roof, getting hypothermia. Instead, she's in a bed, specifically Wells's bed, the one she's staying in for the holidays. Bellamy must have taken her home, which is sweet and makes her stomach flutter a little bit, but was ultimately unnecessary. When Clarke's drunk enough, she'll happily pass out anywhere, like a cat. She once woke up face-down in her neighbor's bushes after a particularly intense high school dance, where the punch was spiked with absinthe.

The third thing she notices is that she is definitely _not_ wearing the clothes that she was, last night. She's in the too-big t-shirt she stole from her old gym teacher's box of spare exercise clothes. It's got a print of Jimi Hendrix and Slash on the front, and a bunch of little holes along the hem and both shoulders. She's also wearing no pants.

Clarke has a hard time picturing Bellamy changing her into her pj's before tucking her into bed--he might have driven her home, and even carried her up the stairs to Wells's bedroom, but he'd probably draw the line at undressing an unconscious girl. He just doesn't seem the type. She might not know him _well_ , but she knows enough.

So maybe it was Octavia, or even Luna, or Lexa, or some other girl Bellamy roped into helping Drunk Clarke out of pity. It's not _impossible_.

Except, then she hears a fist banging on Luna's door, in the hallway, and Nyko's gruff morning voice, shouting _IT'S FUCKING EIGHT AM KNOCK IT OFF!_ Which wouldn't be that out of the ordinary, except--she's heard him shout that before.

In fact, everything about this morning feels eerily familiar, like she's already lived through it once. The wave of deja vu is nauseating, and not because she's hungover. In fact, she's not hungover at all, which seems odd. Clarke has a pretty okay alcohol tolerance and only ever threw up the once, because she mixed marshmallow vodka and mint chocolate Bailey's, which will never happen again, but she does still get hangovers. She's not _that_ lucky. And she knows she drank way too much of Monty's weird imported hooch last night, which should have been bound to leave her head throbbing at least until noon.

But she doesn't feel a thing, except the last fading grogginess of just waking up. Plus, she can't feel her contacts, all dry and stuck to her eyes and uncomfortably itchy. Her vision's blurry too, so she slips on her glasses. She supposes they could have fallen out in her sleep, since that happens sometimes, or rolled back behind her eyes, which is the most nightmarish thought _ever_ , but--she's pretty sure they didn't. And she _knows_ Bellamy couldn't have taken them out while she was asleep. He probably didn't even think to try.

Clarke stands and crosses over to the desk, where she's keeping most of her toiletries. Sitting there, untouched, is her contact lens case, with both of them safely in place in their solution. Clarke frowns, glancing around. She's pretty sure she left the room a little bit of a mess with her clothes, while she was looking for her top last night. But instead her bags are still mostly unpacked and tucked in the corner. She reaches for her phone, charging on the bedside table, expecting to see a dozen embarrassing selfies she took while she was drunk, shaky and blurry, with nothing but the corners of smiles or fingers in front of the lens. But when she turns on the screen, the first thing she sees is the date.

DECEMBER 24TH.

Clarke frowns; that can't be right. Maybe apple tried to update and crashed, or something, and the clock froze. That happens sometimes. But when she looks at the time, it says 8:16 AM, which seems pretty accurate. And when she logs onto Facebook, most of her feed is a bunch of people wishing each other _happy Christmas Eve!_ and talking about their big plans for the night, and tomorrow.

There's a pretty reasonable explanation for this; she dreampt all of last night up, and none of it actually happened. She's never had very realistic dreams, before--mostly there tends to be a lot of rain and unexplained nudity, but that's about it. And last night's dream had felt so--vivid. Like real life. She can remember _shivering_ , and kicking through the slush as she walked, and the taste of Jasper's attempt at lemonade-flavored moonshine.

She can remember the cool metal of the ring Bellamy gave her, sitting _almost_ just right on her finger.

But that didn't happen either, apparently, even though she glances down at her hand, to be sure.

Clarke decides to check with Luna or Nyko or, if she's here, Lexa, first. Just in case. They don't really know her well enough to pull a prank like this, so she'll trust their answer.

She means to just knock on Luna's door, but Nyko's still in the hallway when she walks out, standing on the second-to-last stair. He eyes her up and down a little, and Clarke suddenly remembers she's still wearing almost no clothes. She flushes, but. She's already out here, so she might as well just ask.

"What day is it?"

Nyko grins a little. "What party did you go to, that you can't remember the date?"

Clarke huffs, shuffling her feet, toes going cold on the hardwood. Wells hates having cold feet, so he'd covered the floor of his bedroom with a jigsaw of rugs, some soft and some scratchy, but all pretty warm, which is what he was going for.

"I'm serious, can you just tell me what day it is?"

Nyko throws his hands up in surrendor, which seems a little unfair since just ten minutes ago he'd been angrily pounding an a door and shouting. "Fine, fine. Twas the day before Christmas, and all through the co-op," he pauses, clearly trying to come up with the next line of his impromptu poem. "Luna's fucking ridiculous music was making heads pop." He grins, pleased with himself, while Luna sends a muffled _It's_ not _ridiculous!_ through the door. She sniffles a little too, for emphasis, and he sighs.

"Thanks," Clarke mumbles, slipping back into the room. Okay, so she had a really vivid dream, so what?

Except--Bellamy had featured in it, pretty prominantly, and Clarke can't help being a little disappointed that nothing actually happened between them. They didn't actually hang out all night, playing bullshit card games and heckling each other to do shots. They didn't dance stupidly in the living room, to whatever weird Velvet Underground music Octavia put on. They didn't sit up on the rooftop, staring out over the night together. He didn't give her the stupid crown ring.

She's not really sure why her subconcious has decided to torture her with its idea of kind and dorky Bellamy Blake, but Clarke shakes the image from her head, firmly. He's not cute, he's not nice, he's not the guy who watched over her open drinks and took care of her all night. He's Octavia's insufferable brother, and that's all he'll ever be. They're not actually _friends_. They barely know each other. They barely _like_ each other.

Clarke needs a drink, which means she has a dilemna. It is currently eight o'clock in the morning, which is the opposite of a respectable time to get drunk. It'd be one thing if it was ten AM, but it's not. So, she can either wait two hours and then go have a very alcoholic brunch at one of the restaurants her mom is such a fan of, and order pancakes and mimosas until she thinks she might burst. _Or_ she can go over to Octavia's, on the off chance that she knows where her brother's stash is, and is willing to get drunk at eight o'clock together.

The answer's a fairly obvious one.

She didn't do this, in her dream. She spent most of her day wallowing in bed watching the Muppets movies she grew up on as a kid, and waiting for her mom to call. She didn't leave the room until seven, to go to the party. It should comfort her, the change in routine, but instead it just feels wrong. Like she's pretending, and going off-script.

Clarke does manage to throw on a pair of faded, paint-stained jeans first, because she can't really be bothered to care about fashion right now. Her hair is a mess of curls on her head, so she sits down to pull the front ends back, twisting them into a braid. It's something she's done since she was little, and her dad first taught her how to part the strands into three, and weave them over and under and in between, just like when he taught her to tie her shoes, with the bunny ears and burrow. It's a mindless thing that her hands can't ever seem to forget, and it calms her a little. It's one of the few things that reminds her of him, but doesn't make her want to curl up and cry.

Eventually, she shuffles downstairs, and Nyko raises his brows at her from the living room, where he's watching some talk show on TV and drinking coffee out of a cereal bowl. She's pretty sure he's Muslim in name only, since Eid was a few months ago and he didn't do anything, but she says "Happy holidays" anyway, and he raises his bowl like a toast.

"Cheers."

Clarke doesn't bother knocking when she gets to the house, even though it seems to be one of the rare quiet days, where no one else is there, yet. Instead, she marches straight in, heading for the kitchen and calling out for Octavia as she goes.

"O, please tell me you know where your brother keeps his gross Nascar beer!"

"Good morning to you too, princess," he says, and she whirls around to find him eating cheerios, leaning his hip against the counter and studying her. His voice is still gravelly from sleep, which she does _not_ need right now, not when she still has her dream image of him, smiling and laughing and holding her hand so she doesn't get lost in the crowd.

"Oh, hey," she says lamely, and he raises a brow.

"It's a bit early, isn't it?"

And just like that, Clarke snaps back to reality. She scowls. "Sorry, _mom_ , next time I'll be sure to ask your permission."

"You _were_ asking after _my_ beer, so," Bellamy says, and Clarke hates that she can't argue his point.

"Whatever," she slumps a little against the fridge, the clunky plastic magnetic letters digging into her back. She hadn't realized _how_ disappointed she was, that the Bellamy from last night was made up, until now.

The real Bellamy looks like her dream, though. He's eyeing her up and down, like he's searching for cracks. Like he's reading in between all of her lines, looking for some hidden answers.

Finally, he nods at the cabinet above her head. "My _Nascar beer_ , as you so eloquently put it, is up there. Behind the cans of tuna." At Clarke's confusion, he gives a conspiratorial grin. "O hates the stuff, and refuses to touch it. So I know she won't look there."

She snorts, and hesitates. She isn't feeling as jittery anymore, and honestly, he was right. It is too early for a drink.

"I'll remember that for later," she decides, and if he's surprised, he doesn't show it. Just shrugs and drinks the gross leftover milk from his bowl, turned beige by the bits of cereal. Clarke makes a face.

"Waste not, want not," he sing songs, and then rinses his dishes immediately, because Bellamy has a very deep and visceral fear of mold that she and Octavia often laugh at.

"Are you hanging out here all day?" she asks, and she doesn't really mean for it to sound like an accusation, but that's sort of her default. Bellamy looks wholly unimpressed.

"Well, considering this is _my_ house," he says wryly, and she bites back a wince.

"I didn't mean it like that--I just wasn't sure if you had other plans, or something."

Bellamy still looks a little skeptical, but he gives half a shrug. "I have to work at noon for a couple of hours, but O might actually kill me if I don't help her set up for the party."

Clarke grins because, yeah, she can see that. There's a loud _thump_ from upstairs, presumably from Octavia. "Speak of the devil."

O is decidedly not a morning person, and so when she comes down the stairs it's with loud, heavy footsteps, until she catches sight of Clarke in the kitchen with Bellamy, and squints at them both.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, voice thick with sleep. She raises a fist to rub at her eyes angrily, like they've somehow disappointed her. Her hair is an angry nest of snarls around her shoulders, and she's wearing an old nightgown that falls just above her knees. It's been washed so many times it's nearly see-through, a pale green, with a barely-there picture of Ariel with a fork in her hair, flaked away in shredded lines.

It's unclear who she's really talking to, but since Bellamy does live there, Clarke assumes it's her. "I was bored," she shrugs. "Mortal Kombat?"

Octavia perks up immediately, like Clarke knew she would. There's nothing O loves more than the taste of violence in the morning.

She fetches one of the enormous pitchers of extra-extra-sweet tea she keeps in the fridge, the kind with so much sugar that it can't possibly all dissolve, and so forms a layer of thick sludge at the bottom. Bellamy and Clarke make the same noise of disgust, and O grins at them.

"What doesn't kill me makes me stronger," she declares.

"Or gives you diabetes," Clarke says, at the same time that Bellamy grumbles "Or rots your teeth." They glance at each other and then away, while Octavia cackles.

She might be on Team Jump Each Other's Bones, and she may or may not have money riding on it.

The morning passes lazily, with the three of them stretched out on the sunken-in couch that bruises Clarke's ass, it's so hard, crowing at the screen in front of them and trying to distract each other with pillows to the face. Bellamy, of course, is above it all, and just sits off to the side, grumbling about their _technique_ every once in a while, to which Clarke responds with an elbow to his ribs, because she's fucking mature.

As promised, around noon, Bellamy heads upstairs to change for work, and then leaves in the ancient station wagon Aurora Blake left behind when she died. Clarke watches him drive away through the window, and _she_ thinks she's being pretty smooth about it, until she turns to find O wearing a knowing smirk.

"Octavia no," Clarke says, warning, but O just yawns and cracks her back viciously before lounging out like a cat, spreading her legs over Clarke's lap, wiggling her electric blue toes in her face a little until she scowls.

"You totally have a thing for my brother," she accuses, but she sounds pretty delighted about it. Probably because of the bet.

"I do _not_ have a thing for your brother," Clarke sighs. "I don't even know him!"

Octavia gives her a look. "You've known him for like, five months now. And you definitely checked him out at Jasper's pool party."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean anything," Clarke sniffs. "I was admiring the scenery. Your brother's pretty, but he's a dick, and I don't have a thing for him."

"Whatever you say," Octavia shrugs, turning back to the game and using the distraction to put Clarke in a headlock, which is completely unfair.

Monty and Jasper show up around two in the afternoon, with _fifteen_ crates of their ridiculous foreign alcohol, which essentially means they're all very tipsy by the time Bellamy comes home from work, to find the four of them sprawled on the floor with an old Bop It that Monty found in his attic, and none of them can seem to beat.

Bellamy gives one of the long-suffering sighs he's perfected, before filling up four of those collectible plastic McDonald's cups with water from the tap, and passing them around.

"You're such a _mom_ ," Clarke whines, when he levels a heavy look at her after she tries to just take a sip. "You did this last night too," she complains, and he goes a little stiff.

"I did what last night?"

"Hmm?" Clarke stares at her cup--it's Jim Hawking, from _Treasure Planet_ , which makes her think of the Goo Goo Dolls, which makes her think of her dad.

"Clarke, what did I do last night?" Bellamy asks again, putting a hand on her shoulder. He sounds a little urgent, but like he's trying to hold it back. Clarke frowns up at him, shrugging him off. She's still thinking about her father, and she doesn't want to--she came here to forget, didn't she? And so that's what she's going to do.

"How should I know?" she huffs, rolling her eyes. She tries to stand up on her own, but she's wobbling too much, so he puts a hand each on her hips and helps her. "I'm drinking your gross racecar beer," she declares. "And you can't stop me!"

"Believe me princess," Bellamy says, dry. "I know."

They start getting the house ready around five-thirty, because technically the party starts at six, but there are always those few stragglers that want to show off by coming early, or maybe forgot the time and don't want to chance being late. Clarke isn't sure why; it's a college house party, it's not like punctuality's expected.

Mostly they just move all the big furniture to the side, and Bellamy tapes a bunch of cardboard around the flatscreen TV, just in case. Jasper and Monty are sitting on the kitchen floor, mixing their strange drinks, like a pair of drunken mad scientists. Octavia sets up the speakers, plugging the aux cord into her phone, so she can blast things like 3OH!3 and deadmau5. Clarke drinks three bottles of Coors, wincing with each taste.

"Why don't you just _not_ drink it, if you hate it so much?" Bellamy asks, amused. He's still relatively sober, while Clarke is leaning with the top of her back and head propped up against the wall so she doesn't fall.

"Because then it would win," she says, serious, and he laughs.

He laughs like dream Bellamy, too, and the sound makes it hard for Clarke to swallow. That's a dangerous thought to have.

This night passes a lot like her dream, except everything's _louder_. There's no private bubble, no quiet wishes while they look at the stars. They play their drinking games, and heckle each other, and eat chips and dip at the kitchen table when the front porch gets too cold. But even that feels different--the air between them is different, and not as smooth. It's jagged, like neither of them really _want_ to fit there, but they do.

Clarke notices a flash of brown skin and dark hair head up the stairs to the bathroom, and she stays in the living room, dancing right in the middle of the group. She finds Octavia and they twirl each other around, breathless and giddy and stumbly and drunk.

She pushes her way to the far wall, when she gets too warm to _think_ , and slots right in beside Bellamy. He hasn't been _with_ her the whole night, not like he was in her dream, but he's been around, pacing the periphary, always keeping her in his sights. She wants to ask him about it, but she's not sure where to start.

Her phone starts to ring, but the picture's all blurry. Bellamy reaches out and turns it right side up, and _there_ , now she can see it. It's Wells, because she forgot to text him.

"Wells!" she shouts, trying to be heard over the music.

"Clarke?" he sounds a little concerned. She can hear the steady beeping of his mom's monitor. "Where are you? Are you okay?"

"I'm at Octavia's!" she says, and tries to elbow her way through the crowd, to find a quiet space. Maybe a broom closet, or something. But there are too many people, and she's too short for them to notice, and she's seriously consider stomping on some feet, when Bellamy steps in front of her. He reaches back and grabs her wrist, pulling her through the tunnel he makes, until they're relatively free, in the front hall. "Wells, I'm fine," Clarke says, but she's still looking up at Bellamy. "Spend time with your mom. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Okay." He still sounds uncertain, but. He trusts her. "Merry Christmas, Clarke."

"Merry Christmas." She hangs up. Bellamy glances down at her mouth and away.

He rubs at the back of his neck, looking achingly familiar. She wishes he somehow remembered her dream too, remembered how it was between them. How it felt like they just _belonged_.

"I got you something," he says, quiet, and Clarke's whole body locks up. He doesn't seem to notice, is searching his pockets for something, and she knows what it is before he even pulls it out. "Give me your hand," he says, gruff, like he's embarrassed, and she does.

He puts the ring in her palm, and stares at her, reading her face, waiting for her reaction.

"Bellamy," she starts, but she's cut off by a sudden storm of cheering, all around them, as Octavia's phone alarm goes off, blaring through the speakers. It's midnight, officially Christmas.

Bellamy's grinning at the crowd, at his sister who's jumped up on Miller's back with a whoop, and he's still grinning when he turns back to her. Clarke's heart goes into her throat.

Monty finds her then, grinning and oblivious to _whatever_ it is between her and Bellamy. He pulls her by the hand, into the throng of people, dancing to some heavy metal version of _Jingle Bells_ that gets under her skin. She can still feel Bellamy's eyes on her, can see him whenever she glances over her shoulder, through the gaps in the crowd. He never tries to come closer, or join in. Just watches and eventually when she turns her head, he's gone.

She falls asleep inside this time, practically collapses on the mess of people, tangled up in Octavia and Jasper and Miller and Fox, like a pretzle. Octavia snorts a little in her sleep, a puff of air landing on Clarke's cheek. The rug is going to leave imprints in her skin, but she's too tired to care. The whole universe feels hazy around the edges, her tongue heavy in her mouth.

She still has to ask Bellamy her question, but. She'll do it tomorrow.

Clarke wakes up at the co-op, tucked neatly into Wells's bed. Luna's music is blaring, and then suddenly it isn't, and Nyko is pounding on her door. She scrambles to pick up her phone, but she knows what she'll see.

DECEMBER 24TH. The day has started over.

Clarke stares at her phone, drawing nothing but blanks. She's _so sure_ this isn't a dream, that the other Christmas Eve's weren't dreams, either. She's seen _Groundhog Day_. She knows what this is.

She's stuck in a time loop, somehow, and she needs to figure out how to break the chain.

But Clarke doesn't _know_ much about time loops, or time in general, so she calls the first person she can think of.

"You're up early," Wells says, quiet. The beeping of his mom's monitor is steady as always, in the background. "Did hell freeze over or something?"

"Something like that," Clarke says, and her voice must not be as even as she thought it was, because Wells instantly goes from teasing to concerned.

"Hey, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy," she warns, because it will, she knows it will. But Wells will listen--he might not believe her, but he'll listen, and he'll always try to help. "But I keep reliving the same day. It's happened three times, now."

There's a pause, and then, "Come again?"

So Clarke starts from the beginning, leaving out the embarrassing bits, going over every detail, ending with when she woke up this morning. "What do you think it means?"

Wells hums a little, considering. "Have you picked up any antique lamps, lately? Pissed off any fortune tellers?"

Clarke scowls. "I'm serious, Wells. I'm--I'm freaking out, okay? What if it's--what if I'm going crazy?"

"If this were just a delusion, you'd already be crazy," Wells chirps, pragmatic as always. "But for what it's worth, I've known you your whole life, Clarke. You're not crazy. A little intense, maybe, but never crazy."

She lets out a breath of relief; she hadn't actually realized she was worried about how he might take it, until now. She should have known better, really. "Thanks. But how do I fix it?"

"You said it started with Bellamy," Wells points out, and she can practically hear the shrug he's giving. "So I guess, start with him. Again."

"Yeah," Clarke frowns, because _Bellamy_. She has to find him, and tell him, but. "What if _he_ thinks I'm crazy?"

"Who cares? It's not like he'll remember in the morning."

"Thanks," she says, dry, and then adds a little softer, "I love you."

"Love you too. Now go right the universe, or whatever," he says, and hangs up.

It's a little after noon by the time Clarke makes it to the Blake's house, and the station wagon is missing. She goes inside to find Octavia plopped on the couch, watching _The Real Housewives of New Jersey_ and eating bugles off her fingers, like claws.

"Octavia where does your brother live?" Clarke asks, deciding to just forego strategy and get straight to the point. O whirls around to stare at her, mouth open in surprise.

"Why?" she frowns, and Clarke falters a little.

"Uh, he forgot his, uh--jacket. At the co-op."

Octavia looks less than convinced by this excuse. "Why was he at the co-op?"

"He gave me a ride last week, god, what is this the inquisition?" Clarke's hoping her annoyance will cover up how obvious the lie is, and she's not really sure if it does, but Octavia just rolls her eyes and turns back to her show.

"He's at the Cross Creek Mall, working for Santa." There's a smirk in her voice, and Clarke is momentarily stunned by the mental image of Bellamy Blake in an elf costume.

"Uh, right. Thanks. See you." She scurries out back to the co-op, to see if she can borrow a car.

As it turns out the only car available is Luna's, which is a hearse that she's painted lime green and converted to diesel, so everything smells like donut grease, and the engine makes a horrifying sound each time she brakes. But it works, and Luna agrees to let her borrow it for the day, and Clarke makes it to the mall without dying, so. She's not about to complain.

The Cross Creek Mall is really four different buildings, hodepodged together into one, and it's _massive_ , made of gray concrete that reminds her of some dystopian sci fi film. But the Santa station is right inside the front, with banners and giant plastic candy canes leading the way, so it's relatively easy to find.

She catches sight of him almost immediately--there's a long line of kids and their parents, and two helpers dressed as elves, leading the kids to Santa's lap, and then leading them away. Bellamy's the one leading away, so it's easy for Clarke duck around behind Santa's enormous red easy chair, and walk up to his side.

"What did you do yesterday?" she asks, because she figures it's as good an ice breaker as any. If he doesn't know what she's talking about, then she can just assume she's in this time loop alone.

But if he does know...

Bellamy whirls around to frown at her, the little bells on his elf hat jingling with the movement. "What are you talking about?" he asks, but it sounds somehow feigned. Like he's giving her an out. Clarke doesn't want it.

She crosses her arms, settling back on her heels a little, her go-to Bellamy battle pose. It's just instinct, at this point. "You know what I'm talking about," she argues, and reaches out to poke him in the chest, for emphasis. "What did you do _yesterday_?"

For a very long moment he says nothing, and the other elf has to hiss a little to get their attention, so Bellamy can help some cute red haired toddler off Santa's lap and back over to his waiting grandparents. But once that's done, Bellamy comes back to her.

"I woke up," he says, purposefully vague, and she resists the urge to kick him. "Went downstairs, had some cereal. Got yelled at by you," he adds, and Clarke's eyes go wide. "Watched you and O fail miserably at the Playstation. Went to work, came back to Octavia's party." He hasn't been looking at her this whole time, instead staring resolutely ahead at the line of kids, even though Clarke knows he probably doesn't even see them. Finally, he glances over, like he's checking her face for some sort of reaction, some sign that she's in this, with him.

"You suck at Never Have I Ever," she chirps, and he stares. "Thanks for the ring."

" _Fuck_ ," Bellamy hisses, and she tries not to take offense. She'd thought he'd be glad, knowing he wasn't alone, just like she was. "Fuck, I--" His coworker hisses again, and Bellamy rolls his eyes, marching over. By the time he gets back, Clarke has collected up what's left of her dignity, and is ready to leave.

So what, if they're trapped in this stupid time loop together? Obviously he wishes he was trapped alone, so fine. She'll go, and she'll figure it out on her own. She'll right the universe, by herself.

"Look," he sighs, running a hand through his hair, looking agitated. "Do you want to just let it play out, or whatever?"

Clarke frowns up at him. "Let it play out?"

"Why do you think I'm here right now," he says, dry. "Do you honestly think I'd be wearing this getup if I didn't think tomorrow would be tomorrow, and I'd get paid?"

Clarke makes a show of eyeing him up and down, from his pointy little pleather boots with the bells, to his green and red striped pants and vest-top with the billowy sleeves, to the pointy hat on his head, with bells dangling from each angle. He's gelled his curls back underneath it, and she sort of hates that, but the rest? It's honestly not bad.

She smirks a little, and is immediately gratified when he turns a little pink. "I don't know," she muses. "You've looked worse."

Bellamy stares down at her, unamused. "Thanks."

"So you really think this thing will just--what, end on its own?"

He shrugs, and his little bells give a jingle. "It started on its own, so why not?"

It was as sound as any other argument she's thought of, which have mostly been along the lines of Karmic torture for when she used to steal art supplies from school book fairs, when she was a kid. Plus, whatever it is Bellamy's done in his life--and it's _Bellamy_ , so that's probably quite the long list.

"Okay," she agrees. "So, what's the game plan?"

"Did you miss the part where we just let it play out?"

"I like to be prepared," she sniffs, and he groans, rolling his eyes so hard she's worried they'll fall out and get stuck in his head.

" _Of all the fucking_ ," he mutters. "Okay, fine. Just--go about your day as usual, okay? Watch your dumb Netflix shows, or whatever. Call your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," Clarke says, automatic, because of course he means Wells. "And I already did. He thinks it's a time loop, and we might have pissed off a fortune teller, or the spirit of Christmas past, or something."

Bellamy squints down at her, incredulous. "It's happening to him, too?"

"No, I told him."

"And he believed you?" He looks a little grudgingly impressed when she nods. "I tried to tell O the second day, but she thought I was joking. Then she thought I was high."

Clarke shrugs. "Wells is studying to be a counselor. I was kind of freaking out--honestly it was probably good training for him."

"Think he'll remember tomorrow?" He scuffs his elf boots on the floor, and the bells give a tinny ring. He sounds almost--hopeful.

"I guess that depends on if tomorrow's tomorrow."

Bellamy snorts, jumping up when the other elf looks ready to boil over. "Good point--see you tonight."

Clarke doesn't actually leave right away--she's been putting off her Christmas shopping, in the hopes that her mom might call at the last minute and invite her home. So she wanders around, window shopping, buying a few of the world atlases she knows Wells has his eye on, and one of those inkwell pens he collects. She should probably get something for Octavia, too. She'd made her a paper mache hand, with seperate fingers to hold all her rings and bracelets, but that's mostly a gag gift, since they met in an art studio class where O clearly had no idea what she was doing, and Clarke had to keep bailing her out. She once accidentally glued some bits of newspaper to her face using mod podge. It was not a good look on her, and her skin was irritated for days.

She finds a scarf with little colored glass beads on the ends. It's a purple so dark it looks nearly black, and she knows Octavia tends to lean more towards the ripped-denim-leather-jacket look, but. She's seen her eye some of Clarke's girlier sundresses that she sometimes wears to class, if the weather is nice and she feels like it. Every girl likes something pretty, and O could wear the scarf while she kicks some frat bro's ass. If anything, it'd probably add to her image.

Clarke calls Wells on the drive home.

"So have you fixed the Matrix, yet?"

"Bellamy says we should just let it fix itself," Clarke says, and Wells lets out a low whistle.

"Rookie mistake; these things _never_ get it right on their own, that's the whole point. The main character--in this case, you and Bellamy--is the only one who knows, because they're the only one that can help."

"I don't know anything about time loops," Clarke snorts. "I saw that Bill Murray movie when I was like, nine--and I fell asleep in it!"

"It doesn't matter if you know about it or not," Wells says, sage as ever. "Look inside yourself, Clarke. You are the answer. Well, you and Bellamy."

She can hear his mind whirring like the cogs of her father's watch. "The answer is not me hooking up with Bellamy," she warns darkly, and Wells hums.

"I never said it was," he says, all fake innocence. Clarke doesn't believe him for a second.

"We're going to just let the day play out, and see what happens," she says instead, and there's a snort at the end of the line.

"Didn't you guys already do that? Three times, or something?"

"But now we know about each other," Clarke points out. "That might change something."

"Okay, but just for the record, this is my telling you _I told you so_ in advance, since I probably won't remember to, tomorrow. Or whatever day it is."

"It'll be tomorrow," Clarke says, firm. "And _I'll_ be the one saying _I told you so_. And you'll owe me a dozen krullers, when you get back."

"A _dozen_?"

"Warmed," she grins. "From Marco's. Merry Christmas, Wells. I'll call you when I wake up-- _on a new day_."

"You're a brat," he says, but there's no real heat to it. "Good luck with your weird hook-up magic."

"It's _not_ hook-up magic," she snaps, but he's already hung up on her, the jerk.

Clarke hands the keys back to Luna and then holes up in Wells's room, but she can't really get in the mood to watch something. She's too wired, her legs keep bouncing, and she feels jittery, like she needs to go for a run. Which is strange, because Clarke Griffin does not go for runs, on principle, because running is the worst.

So instead she walks over to the Blake's house, because--close enough, right? Besides, it's a two-block walk. That's excercise. There are stairs.

Monty and Jasper are already there, though only just, and welcome her in with a chorus of cheers, waving a bottle in each hand.

"We need a test subject!" Jasper crows, and Monty elbows him in the side.

"What Jasper _means_ is, we've made a very special and delicious drink and would like you to be the first to try it."

"It's an honor," Jasper adds, serious, and Clarke looks at them, amused.

"How do you know it's delicious if no one's ever tried it?" It's poured in one of the plastic wine cups that Monroe bought Octavia, as a joke. It's a murky green-blue color, like swamp color, and she gives a sniff before wincing. It smells like the chlorine in a pool.

"Everything we make is delicious," Jasper shrugs, and Clarke tries and fails not to laugh, because--see: lemonade-flavored moonshine. Everyone felt queasy for _weeks_ afterwards.

But, there's a chance that even if she does get sick, she'll be in perfect health by the morning, so what the hell? It's Christmas. So she plugs her nose with her other hand, and downs the drink in one gulp.

"O-kay," Monty drawls, a little stunned. "Really we just meant, you know, taking a sip, but. Chugging works, too."

"It tastes like formaldehyde," Clarke says, passing the emptied cup back to them.

Jasper frowns. "How do you even know what that _tastes_ like?"

Clarke shrugs, in answer. "Where's Octavia?"

Monty nods his head vaguely towards the back of the house, and Clarke wanders off in search. She finds her in the downstairs bathroom, tucking all the toothbrushes and stray hair bands and teeth whitening strips into the cupboard under the sink, in one huge tangled up mess that's sure to fall out as soon as anyone opens the doors.

"Ready for the party of the century?" Clarke says, wry, leaning her hip against the door frame. O glances up with a feral grin.

"Hell yeah," she crows. "Those bitches won't know what hit them!"

From the kitchen, they can hear the boys calling, and Octavia frowns. "What are they saying?"

"Something about a Bop It," Clarke says, helping her up. "Come on, let's go show them how it's done."

The boys and Octavia are pretty gone by the time Bellamy gets home, just like last time, but halfway through their game, Clarke started trading actual alcohol for those pouches of cherry Capri Sun in the fridge, so she's almost sober. He gives her a nearly imperceptable nod, and she brushes a finger to her nose, because she knows he'll make a face, and laugh a little.

The night moves along just like it did before, except Wells doesn't call this time. He's probably watching the clock, waiting, wondering if he'll remember anything at all when he wakes up.

She pulls Octavia aside, to give her the scarf.

"I know it's a day early," she starts, "But--"

But she doesn't get to finish the thought, before Octavia's tugging her into her chest, harsh and unforgiving, like everything else she does. But a little soft too, just at the corners. When she pulls back, she's beaming.

"You have to wait until tomorrow for yours," she warns, cheery, and Clarke hopes she'll get to see it.

She and Bellamy are at opposite ends of the room when O's alarm goes off, and everyone cheers. Roma releases one of those confetti poppers from the Dollar Tree, and the little bits of construction paper and glitter land _everywhere_ , getting tangled up in Clarke's hair and eyelashes, catching on the bridge of her nose.

Bellamy finds her a few moments later; he'd managed to dodge most of the confetti, but there are a few shreds of it caught on his shirt, which she brushes off. He grins, reaching over to rub his thumb against her cheek, pulling back so she can see the glitter stuck to his skin, there.

"Where's my present?" she demands, and he laughs. "I thought we were letting the day play out like it should."

"Bossy," he teases, but she just shrugs; she _is_ bossy. She owns it. He pulls out the ring and slips it onto her finger, his own hands a little sloppy with it, like they're too big.

"Where'd you find it, anyway?" she wonders, moving her hand so it can glint in the light. It's still the murky green color that copper gets from age, but. She likes it, anyway.

Bellamy shrugs, taking a pull from his beer, though she's pretty sure it's only his second. He seems to be staying sober, too. "Bargain bin at Target," he says, and it sounds sort of like a test, the kind of thing he used to say when they were first getting to know each other. Back when he thought she was just some snobby little rich girl, easy to rile up. "It's not, like, brand-name, or anything."

"You don't say," Clarke smirks, and he shoves her.

She follows him upstairs as the party winds down, and teenagers start falling to the floor like dropped jackets, left where they lie. They pick their way through the minefield of limbs, and Bellamy leads her up to his room.

They lay down on his mattress, side by side but not touching, and she stares up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling, forming actual to-scale constellations. She knows they've been up there for years, since he was little, and it must have taken him _hours_ , glancing at the pictures in his books, to make sure he got them _just right_.

Clarke rolls over to look at him, and he sighs a little before doing the same, so they're facing each other. She hasn't had that much to drink, but her eyes are still heavy. She's having trouble keeping them open, each time she blinks.

"See you tomorrow," he says, voice a little hoarse, which means he's sleepy too.

"Fingers crossed," Clarke agrees, and he reaches down to tangle their hands together, which sort of counts, she guesses.

Clarke wakes up in Wells's bed. Luna's music. Nyko's shouting. She puts her heads in her hands.

Bellamy's in his room when she shows up at the house, not bothering to knock first.

"You're lucky I sleep in boxers," he says, but he sounds _tired_ , staring over at the clump of green and red and shiny gold in the corner--his elf costume, she's pretty sure. It probably can't be easy, dealing with the same screaming, crying, annoying toddlers, day after day after day.

"We're playing hookey," Clarke decides, and he studies her a little, amused.

"We're doing what?"

"Taking the day off," she shrugs, settling down into the navy blue bean bag on his floor. It's been flattened over the years, missing half of the little white beads from inside, taped over with the kind of scotch tape meant for painting houses.

He still looks unsure, so she smirks, deciding to goad him into it. Bellamy's remarkably easy to convince; she just has to make it a challenge. "Come on, Blake. Live a little."

Bellamy huffs a laugh, tugging on the crumpled shirt at the end of his bed. His room looks lived-in, messy around the edges, like him. There are books _everywhere_ , set on each surface, including a few on the floor. Books and those little Bic lighters from gas stations, each with a different print, like he collects them or something. And maybe he does--it's not like she'd know.

"And if tomorrow comes, and I'm suddenly fired for not coming to work?" he wonders, raising a brow.

Clarke shrugs. "You'd probably be busy celebrating the fact that tomorrow came."

"Fair enough," he sighs, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eyes.

"Bellamy, come _on_ ," she whines and then lowers her voice a few octaves. "Whatever happened to-- _there's nothing wrong with a little chaos_ , hmm?"

He grins over at her, reaching for the pair of jeans piled up on the floor, tugging them on as he stands. It shouldn't feel this comfortable, watching him get dressed, but. Clarke's beginning to accept that when it comes to Bellamy, things are different.

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Nope," she chirps, popping the _p_ before hopping up to follow him into the hall.

"Okay, well, you win. Where are we spending this day off--behind the bleachers? In the handicapped bathroom stall?"

Clarke squints over at his smug face. "Is that where _you_ went when you skipped? Jesus, that sounds terrible."

"Why," he frowns. "Where'd you hide out?"

"I just went to the movies," Clarke shrugs. "Or the mall--you know, somewhere actually _off_ school grounds. What were you doing in a bathroom stall?"

Bellamy's grin turns wolfish, and she's suddenly very sure she doesn't want to know. "I think you mean _who_ was I doing in the bathroom stall."

Clarke makes a face. "You're disgusting." He laughs, swiping the keys to the station wagon off the counter. They hear the tell-tale _thump_ of Octavia waking, upstairs. "Where do you want to go?"

Bellamy glances at her, amused. "What, you don't have a place in mind? I thought you were the expert, here."

She rolls her eyes, following him out to the car. "Shut up, loser. I was just trying to take your opinion into account."

"No you weren't," Bellamy argues, smug. "You totally don't know what you're doing. I'm playing hookey with a hookey amateur."

"I'll show you amateur," Clarke mutters, and forces her way into the driver's seat, which Bellamy just sort of shrugs off before climbing in the other side. He has to adjust the seat a lot, because O's legs are tiny, but then he passes off the keys and only glares a little when she changes the station to Alt-Rock.

"Don't fuck up my car," he says, mild.

"Don't make me," Clarke shoots back, and takes off.

"You took me to a _kids' museum_ ," Bellamy says, disbelieving, even though she's not sure why. He's said it like ten times already, and they're already past the second exhibit.

"Get it?" she grins. "Because you're such a baby."

He narrows his eyes a little, as she fits a puppet on her hand. It looks like him, sort of, with a mop of dark yarn for hair and skin of tan canvas. She makes it choke to death while he watches, unimpressed.

"And you're a brat," he says, but the effect is ruined when he finds a blonde-haired puppet, and mimes cutting her head off. The children around them are starting to point. "So I guess we both fit in here."

"Fascinate U is a great museum," Clarke sniffs, brightening up instantly when she catches sight of the fireman pole. It has been and always will be, her favorite. "My school used to do field trips here like, every semester. It was great."

She makes him hold her jacket while she climbs up the rope ladder, to slide down the pole, even though it's a lot shorter now that she's an adult, and it's barely a two foot drop. Bellamy is watching, infuriatingly smug, and she swats his shoulder when he laughs.

He does try on the fireman clothes, though. It's an adult-sized suit, so it fits, and it looks good on him. He lets her take a few pictures on her phone, because he know they'll be gone by tomorrow. But, for now, at least, she has them, and can mock him for the rest of the day.

They have lunch at some overly expensive diner, and he keeps swiping fig-and-goat-cheese off her plate, but it's not stealing when she lets him. They leave a hundred dollar tip because they can, because in the morning, all of the money they spent today will be back in their wallets. It's a pretty liberating thought. Clarke pictures an enormous bonfire, of her savings account all in cash, even the inheritance she got from her uncle.

She won't do it, obviously. It seems like a lot of effort to go to for a metaphor, one that won't even last. And anyway, they don't have the time. They barely make it back to the house before six-thirty.

He makes her pull over on the drive home. "Just for a second," he swears, as she tries to parallel park, wincing the whole while. She _never_ parallel park, she'd rather drive for fiteen minutes, searching for a nearby lot that she can easily pull into. "I just have to get something."

And obviously the fact that he's being cryptic about it means she just _has_ to go inside after him. It's one of the strip malls downtown, but not the same downtown that has the diner, and Fascinate U, and that fancy movie theater that sells wine and German chocolates. It's the side of downtown that's cracked open, with buildings either covered in those metal security gates, or sheets of plywood over all the windows and doors. There are lots of strip clubs with exclusive trucker nights, and a bowling alley no one ever goes to with a huge wizard painted on the side, and several strip malls filled with vendor carts selling the kind of stuff you could find at any Dollar General.

Clarke doesn't bother being sneaky about following him, and so when Bellamy does notice her, he goes a little pink, but he's listening to an older woman babble on from across her little cart, where she's selling old copper and tin jewelry--necklaces missing a few beads from the chain, earrings with the backs all twisted, cuff links that used to be set with onyx but are now just hollow gold plates. And, the ring, the one he keeps giving her, that he's buying, right now.

"Thanks, Echo," he says, quiet, and the woman sees them off pleasantly. Clarke waits until they're out of her range, to nudge him in the side a little.

"You said you got it from a bargain bin at Target," she teases. He scowls, but that just makes the whole thing better. She wishes she was recording it. She wishes that if she recorded it, the recording would stay.

"Yeah, well, it was still just twelve dollars," he says, gruff. "That's definitely a bargain." He's clearly trying not to make a big deal of it, but the damage is done. Clarke knows he bought her a ring, and she will never let him forget it.

She wears it throughout the party, this time. Through the decorations and the drinking games and the dancing. Through Wells's late-night call--she hasn't told him about the time loop, again.

Bellamy dances with her this time, too, twirling her around until she feels dizzy, until she wants to just lay down on the floor and never get up. But Bellamy tugs her out to the porch before she can, and instead they curl up on the wicker love seat that's seen better days. A chunk is missing from the side under her thigh, from where the neighbor's doberman bit through it, and the ends scratch against her skin whenever she moves. Clarke can't remember why she thought wearing a sundress to a party in December was a good idea, but she regrets every minute of it.

Until she glances over and catches Bellamy staring at the cream of her leg, from where their blanket slid down. He clears his throat a little, reaching over to tuck it back in place, keeping her warm, up against him.

He doesn't try to move when she lays her head on his shoulder, as the alarm goes off inside. They hadn't bothered staying sober, so the world is the usual bright and hazy that it becomes whenever she drinks. She spins the ring around on her finger, until Bellamy's hand on hers forces her to stop.

"Merry Christmas, Bell," she yawns, settling in. After all, it doesn't really matter if she stays outside all night in a summer luncheon dress--even if she does get hypothermia, it's not like it'll stick.

Bellamy curls an arm around her, an anchor, warm and heavy and perfect, and she wishes she knew how to tell him that. "Night, princess."

Clarke wakes up in bed, and the day starts over.

"The day only restarts when we fall asleep," Bellamy says, falling onto the sofa beside her. She passes him the second controler, since O's still asleep upstairs. It's barely eight-thirty in the morning, and Clarke wore pajamas over, because she didn't feel like getting dressed. Bellamy's started calling into his mall job, letting them know that he's sick, so they can find a replacement.

"I know it's not real," he'd said, when she asked why he bothered. "But--it would suck, having to work that shift alone. And it's still Christmas Eve, so. Goodwill and shit."

Clarke hid her smile, because it was sweet, but Bellamy was being gruff about it, which meant he didn't want it to be a big deal. So she just called him a dickhead, and grabbed a handful of his cereal straight out of the box.

"What?" She glances over at him, but only for a second, so she doesn't lose the game.

"Today only comes after we fall asleep," he says, infuriatingly patient. Bellamy Blake is a morning person, and she still has no idea why. She doesn't trust it.

"Thanks, Einstein."

He rolls his eyes like she knew he would, and kicks her in the thigh. "I _mean_ \--what happens if we stay up the whole day? Two days? Does time pass, or will it just reset on its own, after a certain amount of time?"

Clarke hits _pause_ so she can gape at him. He looks a little smug about it, but. He kind of deserves it, to be honest. She'll let it slide just this once.

"You think we can override the system," she says, a little breathless, because yeah, it's been fun having a little mini-vacation, where she didn't need to worry about how her actions would affect her the next day, but. She still sort of misses her life, the real one.

"I think we should try."

Octavia, who is decidedly _not_ a morning person, shuffles downstairs to find them shotgunning cans of the lemon-lime Amp that was on sale at Aldi's. They bought fifty-seven, and split the bill, just in case they woke up tomorrow and their bank accounts weren't magically full again.

O squints down at them, like she's trying to decide if they're real or not, or if she's still sleeping in bed. Finally, she says "What the fuck," which seems pretty appropriate.

"We're on a quest," Bellamy explains, in between gulps. His eyes are starting to look bloodshot, which is sort of the goal.

"From god," Clarke adds, and O just sort of throws her hands up at the both of them before heading to the kitchen in search of caffeine, the kind not found in aluminum cans.

"First one to fall asleep gets a dick drawn on their face," Clarke decides, and Bellamy clinks their cans together before they start to guzzle.

They feel sort of like a zoo exhibit for the rest of the day--Octavia must send out a mass text complaining about her weirdo brother and best friend, engaging in some sort of energy drink duel, and so suddenly the house becomes a tourist spot, as crowds of college students show up to take videos of it, and put them on Vine.

"You guys are trending on twitter," Jasper says, and Clarke reaches for a high five, because she sort of feels like she could take on the Terminator. She is definitely taking up body building, to make sure she's apocalypse fit.

Bellamy, meanwhile, seems close to death. He's been speaking only in Latin for the past two hours, and Clarke's pretty sure he's broken.

They keep a steady flow of caffeine all through the party, and into the next day, stopping only for bathroom breaks, or trips down to the gas station to buy more drinks, or when Clarke has to run laps around the house before she spontaneously catches on fire. It's an interesting forty-eight hours.

"We should burn the tree," Bellamy decides, sometime in the evening. Clarke's currently drawing a comic, featuring Bellamy: the Grumpiest Elf. Octavia had given her the few magic markers she'd managed to scrounge up in the house, and some papers that look like they might be important, like taxes, or something, to draw on.

She follows his gaze to the Christmas tree sitting in the corner. It's a real one, their first, and absolutely _covered_ in tinsel, in every color imaginable, because they were having a sale at K-Mart, and Octavia couldn't resist. She's taken red and green cupcake liners and poked holes through them with paper clips, and then hooked them on the branches. There are some ornaments too, all little-kid type stuff, clearly old, with some cracks around the edges, like hand-me-downs. It's a hand-me-down tree.

"It's not _that_ bad," Clarke defends, and Bellamy looks at her, confused.

"No, like, as a proper send-off," he explains. "It's totally a viking tree, can't you tell?"

Clarke looks back at the tree, but all she sees is a tree. There's a pile of needles accumulating underneath it, that are starting to turn brown. "It's a tree."

"It's a _warrior_ tree," he corrects, shaking his head. She adds the warrior tree to her comic, but it comes out looking more like a lopsided snake.

They make it through Christmas. Octavia seems to realize early on that they've basically just regressed into a pair of very frazzled, hyper cats, so she just gives them all the torn wrapping paper to play with, and puts _I Love Lucy_ on the TV.

"You two are driving me to drink," she snaps, settling in between them on the couch, a glass of Monty's leftover concoction in her hand.

Clarke and Bellamy raise their cans in toast, and then go back to ripping their respective bits of wrapping paper into little shreds, each trying to make the biggest mountain of them.

Bellamy holds out until just after dawn on December 26th, before he tosses his last emptied can at the wall, glares at it, and mutters " _Memor vive, ac vale_ ," and passes out on the floor.

"He better not be dead," Octavia says darkly. She'd decided to stay up with them, just in case one of them over dosed or something, and she had to drive them to the emergency room.

"He's not," Clarke chirps, whipping out the magic marker she'd been saving for this moment. It's purple, and so is the penis she draws on his face.

She takes a picture of it for snapchat, with the caption _self portrait_ , before flopping down right beside him. Her eyes still feel like they're on fire, but in an almost-pleasant way, which she's pretty sure means she's dying. She wonders if the clock will still reset once she dies, or if the system will break, or if she'll just be dead and never know it.

In the end, she doesn't get to find out. She wakes up at eight-oh-two on Christmas Eve. Bellamy texts her a few minutes later.

_Still alive?_

She sends _still xmas eve_. She's not sure if she's relieved or disappointed.

They spend a day at the Blake's house, playing a convoluted game of Go Fish with Octavia and Miller, who Bellamy invites over, and Monty and Jasper, when they show up. The game involves a lot of rules they make up in the moment and then forget later on and add onto and change, as they see fit. Nobody wins, because they forget how the points work.

She goes grocery shopping with Bellamy, for party supplies. Most of the stores are still open until four PM today, and everything's going relatively well until he splits open a bag of rice on her head.

" _What the_ \--" Clarke starts, rigid, but Bellamy just grins down at her, blowing a few bits of rice off her nose.

"No consequences, right?" he says, and she can see _exactly_ where this is headed, and it is nowhere good.

"Bell, don't you dare--" she screams a little when a shred of soggy lettuce lands down her shirt, and then it's _on_ , and they start a food fight at the salad bar.

They get escorted out by security, but Clarke's pretty sure that's not the type of consequences Bellamy was referring to.

She runs into Lexa at the party, this time, looking gorgeous as ever in a sheer black top, with shimmery gold lipstick that Clarke wants to lick off, except--

"How's your girlfriend?" she asks, partly to be polite but mostly to get herself together.

But Lexa just smirks a little knowingly. "We have an open relationship," she waves a hand, dismissive. "It's not a big deal."

"Oh." Clarke's never really given much thought to open relationships, and she's not sure how to feel about it. But then Lexa puts a cool hand on her thigh, brushing her thumb up the denim seam.

"I can be yours, tonight," she offers, leaning until her breath lands, cold and minty on Clarke's chin.

"Okay," Clarke says, and kisses her.

She runs into Bellamy in the hallway, on their way out the door. He just takes in their clasped hands, and the gold smudges around Clarke's lips, with a raised brow.

"No consequences, right?" she grins, and he laughs, telling her to get home safe. He reaches out a fist for Lexa to bump, and Clarke pretends to be mad about it until they bump hers, too.

She falls asleep tangled up in Lexa's sheets, midnight blue and smelling like lavender, tangled up in Lexa's bare skin.

She wakes up in Wells's bed, and Luna's music.

She stays close to Bellamy's side this time, and they stick to the quiet corners, with the dumb drinking games where they have to stick sheets of paper to their heads and try to figure out which name their paper says. It's _hard_ , and Clarke's terrible at it, and Bellamy keeps adding names like _Balthasar, Duke of Mecklenburg_ , who nobody else even _knows_ , so they can't help her.

Lexa stops by to say hi, to Bellamy mostly, though she gives Clarke a polite nod. Just polite though, as the friend of one of her roommates. Nothing more.

Bellamy flops his head on her shoulder once Lexa leaves. "Tough break," he offers, because he is the actual worst at empathy. "I'm sorry."

Clarke shrugs the shoulder he's laying on, jostling his head. "It's okay--I knew what I was getting into."

She doesn't look for anyone else to make out with, and when the alarm goes off, she reaches up to tug Bellamy close, pressing her face in his neck. He always feels impossibly warm, like he's running a fever, but she's started to learn that's just _him_.

"Merry Christmas," she grins, pulling back, and he tugs the ring out of nowhere. She's not sure when he could have gone to buy it, since they'd spent practically the whole day side by side.

But she's not about to question it. She slips it on her finger, and follows him into the house, so he can heckle his sister about all the empty Heineken cans he'll make her clean up in the morning. Except he won't, really, and only they're in on the joke.

They settle into a routine--she wakes up, she heads over to his house, and they stay in to play video games or work on the crossword together trying to see who can figure out the most words, or they leave and wander around the city and eat at the most expensive lounge bars they've never been able to afford. Well, the ones Bellamy's never been able to afford, and Clarke has never been able to enjoy--except they can do both, now.

Wells always calls, unless she calls first. Clarke still hasn't told him about the time loop. It's probably best that she doesn't--she doesn't want to get her hopes up like last time.

Then there's Octavia's party, which they always suffer through, before falling asleep on the porch or the sofa or the patio out back, or his bed. There's always the ring.

But one day Clarke wakes up, and she's not sure how long it's been--weeks, maybe months. She thinks she'd know if it had been a _year_ , but. Time is getting to be a little hazy.

She doesn't feel like going through her routine like Bellamy. She doesn't feel like doing anything, even getting out of bed seems like too much. She just wants to curl up and wallow in the ache in her chest, sudden but always a little bit there, the hole where she misses her dad.

So Clarke cues up _The Little Matchgirl_ , which was always Jake's favorite, and settles in with a box of tissues and the emergency thin mints she knows Wells keeps in the back of his mini fridge. She's just twenty minutes into the film, half-surrounded by tissues in balled up wads of her spit and snot and tears, when Bellamy walks in.

He takes one look at her, his serious, studying, in-between-the-lines look, and then toes off his boots and climbs into the bed behind her, curved along her back. He slips a hand over her stomach, a sort of horizontal hug, but it still feels a little causious, so Clarke nestles back against him.

"What happened?" he asks, low and quiet. Soothing. Letting her know she doesn't have to answer if she doesn't want to, but she knows from her therapist it'll help.

"My dad died," Clarke says, and feels a burst of breath from his lungs hit the back of her neck, scattering the hair there. Suddenly, it's too much that he's behind her and she can't even _see_ him, or smell him, or feel the way his throat works. So she turns around in his arms, burying her nose in the cradle of his neck until he hums, sounding pleased about it. "Earlier this year."

"I heard," he admits. "Some of the younger kids were talking about it."

" _Kids,_ " Clarke scoffs, pulling back so she can see him. "You're like, four years older than us."

"Than you," he corrects, mild. One of his hands has started running up and down the length of her spine, and she never wants it to stop. "I'm five years older than Jasper and Monty and the rest of them."

Clarke has to smile at that--Bellamy really only suffers through a handful of people, so that everyone else in the room falls into one of several categories: the Not-Octavia's; the Not-Miller's; the Not-Jasper-or-Monty's; and, Clarke's beginning to think, the Not-Clarke's.

"Old man," she teases, and he huffs a little, but can't really argue. He's the one that fits himself to the role, after all, constantly changing their alcohol for water when they're not looking, making sure they eat before seven o'clock, tossing some worn-in blanket on whoever's spending the night on the couch. He's like the grumpy dad from every nineteen eighties' sitcom, ever.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"There's not much to talk about," she half-shrugs, which is hard since they're laying down, but Bellamy doesn't seem to buy it. "He died, and it sucks, and it's hard, having Christmas without him."

"O said you had a fight with your mom," he says, careful, like he's not sure he should know. His breath smells like toothpaste.

"She wanted to spend Christmas on a cruise."

"Ah." But it's clear he doesn't get it, so she sighs, and tries to explain.

"I just--I feel like it's too soon, to be over it, you know? We shouldn't be happy, without him. It hasn't even been a _year_."

"I get that," he says, and she knows he does. Octavia's told her about their mom, about Bellamy stepping up and going through a whirlwind of paperwork to become her legal guardian at just nineteen. Dropping out of community college so he could work more hours at jobs that never gave him insurance or overtime, and barely paid the bills.

"But," he clears his throat a little. "You can't be sad for ever, you know that, right? I mean, I didn't know your dad or anything, but the way you talk about him--he wouldn't want you to never let yourself be happy."

Clarke just stares for a moment, because. Well, she'd never known he was listening. She sometimes told stories about her dad to her friends, to Octavia and Monty, and sometimes Bellamy would be milling around in the background, but. She'd never thought he cared.

"I know," she says, finally. "He was always happy. He'd hate seeing us like this, but I just--it's too soon. The funeral went by so quickly because mom's _practical_ more than anything. I barely took two weeks off from school, and I've been getting my ass kicked by fucking premed, and then my boyfriend's other girlfriend showed up to surprise him, and I--"

"Wait, what?" Bellamy reaches a hand up to smooth the hair from her face, and leaves it there, resting on her cheek, heavy and warm. He still looks concerned, but harder. Like he's trying not to shout. "What other girlfriend?"

" _That's_ what your focusing on?" she jokes, because the moment's suddenly too serious and she feels ready to hyperventilate, if she doesn't just fucking _relax_. "Finn was dating someone else, from his home town. I didn't know about her, she didn't know about me, and now we do, and as far as I know, Finn is single. You know, if you're interested." She waggles her brows at him, so that he knows she's alright. And she _is_ , mostly. She certainly doesn't want Finn back, and she doesn't blame herself or anything, but--she just wishes she hadn't wasted four months of her life on him. That's time that she'll never get back, and she's never really known that before this year.

"Collins isn't really my type," Bellamy says, wry, and she grins, because the Not-Octavia/Miller/Clarke is so clear. He only knows Finn from whenever Clarke brought him as a plus-one to one of O's parties, and Bellamy sort of sticks to surnames by default, unless you're a part of his collection. Miller, she's pretty sure, just has a bet going with him, and neither of them want to be the first to break.

 _What is your type?_ is on the tip of Clarke's tongue, but--it's probably best not to. She's hurting, and Bellamy makes it better, like always, but. He'll probably be convinced she's just using him to forget about her dead dad, which would kind of put a damper on the mood.

"Netflix?" she asks, a little hopeful, and he grins, leaning in to swipe a kiss to her nose.

"There's this _great_ documentary you're going to love," he says, almost giddy, as she sets up her laptop. Bellamy doesn't actually have his own Netflix account, because he can't bring himself to pay the fifteen dollars, so whenever Clarke's around, he tries to leech. Her queue is filled with _Aliens Built the Pyramids_ and Neil Degrasse Tyson podcasts.

Clarke secretly doesn't mind the documentaries, but she groans a little anyway and makes a show of it until he huffs "I _mean_ it, this time!"

At ten minutes to six, she gets a text from Octavia. _have u seen bell?_ Clarke glances over to find him staring pointedly at the screen. He must have his phone off.

She texts _yeah he's with me, sorry._ And then pokes him in the arm.

"You're not going to the party?"

Bellamy shrugs. "I never really like them, anyway."

"Bullshit," Clarke says, poking him again, so he glares at her. "We always have fun at those things. We kick ass at beer pong."

"Yeah, but that's when you're there," he says, like it's obvious, like he hasn't just completely distorted her world.

"Octavia will be mad at you," she warns, one last attempt to make him leave, even though she's not sure why. She never wants him to leave. She wants to stay curled up in bed with him, and wake up that way.

"Yeah," he agrees. "But it's not like she'll remember in the morning."

They do curl up in bed together, legs interwined and Bellamy's nose pressed to her shoulder blade, arm slung over her waist. It's not nothing--it's not _much_ , because they're both still fully dressed and Clarke's still a gross mess from crying earlier, and she's pretty sure there are still some used tissues caught in the sheets, but. It's not nothing.

She still wakes up alone.

It becomes easy, after that. Clarke wakes up, calls Wells, gets dressed and heads over to the Blake's. Or sometimes Bellamy shows up at the co-op and they hang out in her room all day, or sometimes they watch _The Wheel of Fortune_ with Nyko and then _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ with Luna, before heading over to Octavia's.

They don't always go--sometimes they go out to a nice restaurant or watch _It's A Wonderful Life_ at the midnight showing, or just wander the city streets, arm in arm like in those old Victorian Christmas cards. They find it doesn't start snowing until three in the morning on Christmas day, and they're outside when it happens, near one of the fountains downtown. There's a massive Christmas tree all lit up by the local cub scouts a few days earlier--a few months, probably, now.

The fountain itself is still turned on, with the air cold enough for snow but not cold enough to freeze water, and Clarke sits on the stone rim, to run a hand through it.

"You'll get hypothermia," Bellamy warns. He's emptying all the change in his pockets. A dozen wishes that'll never come true.

"It's not like it'll kill me," Clarke rolls her eyes, wiggling her pruny fingers in his face. They're going pink with the cold.

Bellamy catches them with a huff, tearing his gloves off with his teeth, so he can sandwich her skin between his, rubbing the heat back into them. He brings them to his mouth, breathing out little puffs of warm air on the tips.

"Bellamy," she says, voice catching a little when he looks at her. They've been heading towards this for a while now, and they both know it. She's pretty sure they were each just waiting for the other to mention it, first.

But then she feels a pinprick of cold on her cheek, and blinks, surprised. Bellamy grins, reaching out to rub at it, and now that she looks, she can see a fine dusting of white on his hair, like sugar.

"It's snowing!" Clarke tips her head back automatically, mouth hanging open like a dog's, so he laughs. She can just _barely_ feel the flakes land on her tongue, and closes her eyes so they don't water. She's still standing like that, when suddenly there's a burst of frigid water splashing her face.

She splutters for a moment, blinking the drops away so her vision clears, and sees Bellamy laughing a few feet away, hands still dripping from his crime.

"Okay," she says, eyes narrowed, preparing for war, all thoughts of making out with him forgotten. He's the enemy, now. "Okay, it's on, Blake."

The snow isn't thick enough to stick on the ground or make snowballs with, so they mostly just chase each other around the fountain, until finally Bellamy just hauls off and picks her up, stepping into the spray.

"Bellamy Blake you're a monster!" she cries, but her words get swallowed up by the fountain, pouring down on them like heavy rain.

The cold is a shock to her system, and his teeth chatter as he laughs. They shiver the whole way to the co-op, trying to be quiet so they don't wake the others up, but it's no use. They're still giggling, delerious from the cold and a little bit from the alcoholic eggnog Bellamy made from scratch on the stove, earlier.

But now the moment's starting to go quiet, and they're still dripping on the welcome mat, just inside the door. Clarke's hair feels stiff, like icicles against her face. Bellamy doesn't look much better, nose and ears red from the winter air.

"So, uh," he starts, giving a nervous grin. "Anything to drink around here?"

Clarke shakes her head, licking her lips, chapped from the cold. "Substance-free," she explains, and he nods a little jaggedly.

"Right, right..." he trails off, glancing back at her, and she's suddenly aware that she is a lot drunker than she thought, because now she's thinking about shoving him up against the door. It would be easy, to unbutton his jeans, and sink down to her knees, warning him to be quiet, before pulling every trick from her sleeve, trying to get him to scream.

"We should probably shower," he says, snapping her out of her fantasy. Clarke nods, a little dazed. They should get warm, she knows. Their teeth are still chattering. "You can go first," Bellamy offers, waving a hand towards the stairs. "I'll just hang out and watch Daredevil, or something." They've been marathoning it for the last few repeated days, and he's nearly all caught up.

Clarke goes to nod again, because she'd never turn down first dibs on the hot water, but then catches herself. Her mind is still racing, still nervous, still a little unsure--so she tells it to shut up, and says " _Or_ , we could just share."

She tries to look up at him through her lashes, like in the movies, but it's a little hard since he's so tall. Plus, now he's staring, and she's getting antsy, starting to regret saying anything at all. She'd just thought, back at the fountain--it'd looked like he wanted to kiss her.

He looks like he wants to kiss her a lot, lately, and she'd been so _sure_...

Bellamy swallows, and she watches his neck work, the tendons pulled taught under his skin. He's clenching his jaw, which he only does when he's nervous. "Alright." He glances away, and then back, eyes dark in the shitty lighting. She'll really have to tell Wells to stop buying those stained glass lampshades, just for the aesthetic. "Lead the way, princess."

She takes his hand, still shaking and she tells herself it's the cold but honestly it's fifty percent nerves, at this point. It's just--she and Bellamy are _friends_ , now. Best friends, even, and this isn't just some one-time hook up that she can avoid for the next few months. He's the only person she _has_ at this point, maybe forever, if the time loop never stops. And she's not sure a round of shower sex is really worth losing him.

Bellamy seems to sense her mood, or at least some of it, so when she shuts and locks the bathroom door behind her, he drops her hand, stretching out his own, like he has to shake her touch off. "We don't have to do anything," he says immediately. "I meant it, when I said I'd just hang out." His jaw works a little, like he's trying to bite his own words, and she hates that he's not staring at her, focusing his eyes on the bit of patterned wallpaper above her head. The wallpaper is floral, from the sixties, so. It's not like it's that _interesting_ to look at, and suddenly his avoidance is pissing her off. "I don't want you do something you don't want--"

"Jesus, Bellamy, if you don't want to fuck me, you can just say that," she snaps, crossing her arms over her stomach. It's a defensive move, but she's not going to lie--it's also pretty gratifying when his eyes snap to her breasts at the motion.

He gives a laugh, dry and brittle, and _now_ he's looking at her, but it's more like a sneer than anything. He looks like old Bellamy, from before, the one who used to pick and prod and pry at her until eventually she snapped, and then he'd just set his shoulders back with a smirk like _see? I knew you would break eventually_. She hated old Bellamy. She still kind of does, which is why it's so easy to walk up and shove him a little.

"I don't want you to _do_ anything you don't want, either," she mutters, and she's expecting him to fight back, or goad her into an argument before storming off, like they always used to do.

But instead he reaches out to put a hand on the side of her neck, settling right under her jawline, so soft she almost can't take it, and Clarke feels very unprepared.

"You think I don't want you?" His voice is soft too, and his eyes, and his everything, when he looks at her. This new Bellamy is soft enough for her to burrow in and wrap herself up, and she's starting to think he might not be so new at all. Just hidden, under a few layers of asshole.

"I want you," he noses at her cheek, lips brushing the side of her mouth, the bridge of her nose, her eyelids, fluttering closed. "I've wanted you."

"Then fucking _do_ something about it," she mutters, because tenderness is nice, and she's all for expanding on that later, but it's been _months_ , and she's more than ready.

Also, she's still really cold.

Bellamy laughs, once and final, before slanting his mouth over hers. She's expecting his kiss to be as soft as the rest of him, coaxing almost, building up to it. But instead, the moment she sighs, his tongue is stroking into her mouth. He bites into her lip when she moans, and she starts fumbling with his belt buckle, but her hands are still cold and she's still a little drunk, so she growls in frustration.

He must be able to taste the eggnog, because he pulls away in seconds, to study her. "You're drunk," he accuses, and she frowns.

"I'm not." He just raises a brow, and she huffs a little. "I'm _not_ \--and even if I were, I'd still be doing this, sober. I want you too, you know. All the time. It's fucking annoying, to be honest."

The corners of his mouth curve up at that. "How so?"

"I have to see you _all the time_ , and I can't _do_ anything about it! And it doesn't help that you're all," she flails a hand at his body in general, and his smirk widens.

"All what? I think you'll have to elaborate."

Clarke scoffs. "I'm not doing this with you." She reaches over to turn on the shower, switching the dial all the way over to hot, so the water will warm up quicker. Then she pulls back, and takes off her shirt without warning. She sees his nostrils flare, but he seems otherwise unaffected, so she loses her pants too, using the wall as leverage to rip the soaked jeans from her skin, socks falling with them. Now she's just in her underwear, and they're nothing very special, no sexy lace or anything, but Bellamy's blushing now, the red spreading all down his neck, and she wants to see where it ends.

"Your turn," she breathes, and she means it to come out as a challenge, but mostly it just sounds like a plea.

Bellamy meets her eye, straight faced, and tugs his shirt off over his head, before undoing his belt and letting his jeans pool at his feet. Clarke takes the rest of him in, slowly. She's seen him shirtless before, of course, with the amount of time she's spent at his house, and at pool parties during the summer, but. It's different. She couldn't touch him then, and she hadn't really even let herself think about him. He was Octavia's pig-headed brother, and that was pretty much it.

But now he's _Bellamy_ , and his arms are the size of fucking, she doesn't even know. But they can definitely hold her.

She gives an involuntary snort, and he raises a brow in question. "You _would_ have the v hips," she grumbles, shaking her head. She's still not really convinced this is _real_. Maybe it's like an eggnog-induced hallucination. Or maybe they're still in that fountain, dying of hypothermia, and all of this is in her head.

Maybe this whole _thing_ is in her head, like in one of those soap operas, where it turns out the person was just stuck in a coma, and their alternate reality was all made up.

"The _v hips_?" Bellamy asks, grinning, and Clarke scowls.

"You know," she waves a hand at his very defined abdomen, because she refuses to even _look_ at his crotch. Not until he looks at hers first, at least.

The shower's boiling by now, steam filling up the room, beading on her neck and upper lip, and she watches Bellamy lick his lips, involuntary, like he can't really help it.

"On three, we lose the rest?" he suggests, and she nods. "One," his voice is going a little hoarse, and she likes it. "Two--"

Clarke unsnaps her bra within seconds, and steps out of her underwear, meeting him in the middle, swallowing his groan.

"We said _on three_ ," he chides, biting her jaw, as they step into the bathtub. They get tangled up in the curtain for a minute, and have to break apart before they pull the whole thing down.

"Shut up," Clarke whines, because he's slipped two fingers inside her by now, and the water's so hot it's scalding her shoulders, but she doesn't even care.

"Have you been thinking about this?" He mouths at the skin behind her ear until she knows there'll be a bruise there. Or, there would, if tomorrow ever came.

"You know I have," she snaps, but it tapers into a moan when his mouth moves down her body, sucking bruises into her breasts as he goes.

"Me too," he says, grin in his voice, as he sinks to his knees before her. "I've wanted to do this for months." He shoulders open her thighs, and at the first touch of his tongue, Clarke's head falls back against the tile, hard enough for the sound to echo, and when he tries to pull back, to check on her, she grips him by the hair.

"Don't you dare," she says, voice breaking on the end, and she feels the flash of his teeth up against her, before he gets back to work.

She wants to ask him what he meant, wants to know _exactly_ how long he's been wanting this, wanting her, but. Sex, first. They can figure it out later.

He goes down on her twice, and the water's running cold by the time he finally fucks her up agains the tile, with her biting into his shoulder, so she doesn't wake the others up. They don't have the condoms or birth control talk--it's not like she can get pregnant when time never really passes. That's the one good thing about this time loop, she's decided; months have gone by, with no period.

Bellamy shuts the water off, after, and they just sit in the tub for a minute, catching their breath. Finally, Clarke shoves him over so she can sit up, laughing against the wet skin of his neck as she does. When she pulls away, he's smiling, eyes lighter than she's seen them in weeks.

"We could have been doing that _this whole time_ ," she says, but it's hard to be mad about it. She still can't really feel her legs.

"Longer than that," he says, quiet, and it feels like some kind of confession, so Clarke puts a hand to his cheek, and kisses him. She makes it languid, and sweet, until he feels ready to melt into her, and she laughs against his mouth.

"As nice as this bathtub is," she says, "I think we should probably sleep in a bed, tonight."

She cracks the door open to check that the coast is clear, and they scurry into her room, dropping their soggy clothes in a pile by the door, before falling down on the mattress, curling into each other, skin sliding together, still warm and wet.

He noses her hair a little, working through the knots. "Merry Christmas, Clarke."

"Mm," she agrees, rubbing back against him until she hears his breath stutter. "Best one yet."

Clarke wakes up alone, and nearly texts him ten times, before just turning her phone off, to resist the temptation. There's every chance it was a one-time thing, no matter what they said in the shower. People say things without meaning them all the time, or they change their minds, or they second guess it.

She's resolved to spend the day in bed, just in case, when Bellamy bursts into the room, still wearing his pajamas.

They stare at each other for a minute, before Clarke starts to frown. "Bellamy, what--"

He crosses over without a word and slides his hand in her hair and kisses her. She's still wearing her glasses, and they dig into her nose a little, so he pulls back to take them off and set aside, thumb brushing at her bottom lip, now all pink and swollen.

"Sorry," he says, flushing a little, and looks ready to add to the apology, but Clarke just shakes her head.

"Don't be." She fists her hands in his shirt and tugs him back down, scooting all the way back on the bed to make room for him. There will always be room for him in her bed, she's decided. He fits so nicely.

Their routine begins to change. Now, when she shows up at his house, he throws her up on the kitchen counter and goes down on her, before O wakes up. They play Final Fantasy VII on the couch, with her in his lap until Octavia inevitably leaves to go vomit, and then they fool around before she inevitably comes back with snacks. They hold hands at the grocery store. Clarke slips into the shower with him and sucks him off until the water goes cold. She kisses him when he gives her the ring. They make out during the party and, once everyone leaves, they have the slow, heady sex that Clarke loves, up in his bed. On one memorable occasion, they fuck up on the rooftop in the middle of the night, cold and breathless, moans swallowed up by the wind.

"I wish," Clarke has to gasp a little, as Bellamy traces the divots of her spine with his tongue, digging the pads of his fingers into her ass until she shivers. She feels him smirk against her skin.

"That's always dangerous."

"I will elbow you in the dick," she threatens, and he laughs. "I wish I could wake up with you." He goes quiet, and now her cheeks are burning, and she probably shouldn't have had so much of that weird fizzy wine they found at Target that morning. "I miss morning sex," she adds, in explanation, and he hums a little, stretching up so he can turn her face towards him.

"I wish I could wake up with you too," he says, soft, but it feels like he means something else, when he kisses her.

 _Me too_ , she thinks, sighing into him. She's on the edge of sleep, and the world is a little blurry, so she knows they only have a few moments, but she hopes he can understand. _Me too_.

Clarke's just woken up, when Bellamy wanders in, and she squints up at him, confused and still a bit groggy.

"I thought you woke up after me?"

"Nope," he chirps, unreasonably chipper. _Morning people_ , Clarke thinks bitterly, disgusted. "My alarm goes off at seven."

He comes to sit beside her, and she pokes him in the chest. "You've been holding out."

"Mm," he agrees. "Get dressed, we're going somewhere."

Clarke's eyes narrow, as he shamelessly checks out her bare legs. "Where?"

"It's a surprise."

"Famous last words," she grumbles, because he _knows_ she hates surprises, but Bellamy just grins and then watches with open interest as she changes her clothes.

She's dressed when she slides into his lap, and he locks his arms around her automatically. She's still not sure how long it's been since the start, or even since that first night in the shower, but it feels like they've been doing _this_ for forever. Like they were made to slot together.

"Do we have to leave right now?" she murmurs, teeth scraping his neck, until she feels his hands clench her hips in reflex.

"Maybe not _right_ now," he decides, swallowing her laugh as she grinds down against him, getting off like teenagers, giddy and handsy, with long messy kisses that leave spit on their chins.

Bellamy leads her out to the station wagon, and he has the GPS app up on his phone, which is suspicious, since he knows how to get anywhere in the city.

"Day trip?" she asks, and he grins, smug.

"Something like that."

He pulls up at the airport, an hour and a half away, and parks, clearly waiting for Clarke to speak first.

"Bell, where are we going?"

He hesitates a little, thumbs drawing circles on the steering wheel, before sighing and leaning over to rifle through the glove department. Crumpled reciepts, yellow with age, and old Subway napkins fall to the floor around her feet, along with uncapped pens long dried out, and a few condoms that are probably expired. Finally, he digs out two plane tickets, hastily printed from a computer, clearly bought online. He drops them in her lap for her to read.

10 AM FLIGHT TO SACRAMENTO ONE WAY

Clarke breathes in sharply, and can feel his eyes on her, studying her reaction. "Why?"

"Because you miss her," he says, quiet. "And you should be spending Christmas with the family you have left."

She glances up, and he looks so _fond_ her stomach aches. "I like spending it with you," she says, but what she means is _you're my family too._

Bellamy grins, reaching over for her hand. "That's what the second ticket's for," he says, but what he means is _I know_. "Come on--we'll be late."

"How can you even afford this?" she asks, as they take their shoes off for security. If she'd _known_ where they were going, she wouldn't have worn the lace-up boots.

"Instant magic refund," he grins, smug, because Bellamy is always ready to fight capitalism.

The plane ride isn't long--barely two hours. Clarke dozes a little against his shoulder, caught in the strange space between asleep and awake, with Bellamy's thumb brushing back and forth over her knuckles. She's not sure he's even aware that he does it.

They touch down in California, and Clarke follows him through the airport, even though _she's_ the one who's been here, before. She's expecting to catch a cab, or get a rental car, but instead she finds Wells waiting for them in the Arrivals terminal, holding a sign that says MR. AND MRS. GRIFFIN-BLAKE, because he's an asshole, even if the calligraphy is impeccably done, and must have taken him hours.

He's grinning like an asshole too, all smug _I told you so_ , because he may or may not have called the _sexual tension_ card, after he first played witness to one of hers and Bellamy's biggest brawls.

"When did he call you?" she asks, glancing at Bellamy, who's pretending to be interested in the post cards for sale at one of the airport kiosks.

Wells shrugs, pleasantly. "A couple hours ago. He just asked if I could give you guys a ride. The sign was my idea." _He's_ watching Bellamy with open interest, because Wells doesn't believe in facades. "So how long have you two been together? It wasn't while I was still in town, right? Please tell me you guys weren't doing the secret dating _it's just physical, so let's not tell anyone_ game." He looks at her flatly, and Clarke bristles a little.

"No, it just--honestly, it just happened. I don't know when." She's watching him now too, as he picks out the cards he thinks Octavia will like, and pays for them at the register. He'll probably mail them all out today, with a single word on each, so that together they all spell MERRY CHRISTMAS YOU LITTLE BRAT, like the asshole he is.

Wells nods, like that's the answer he expected, and then loops his arm through his. "Cool. Grab your boyfriend--we have a dinner party to get to."

"It's like, two in the afternoon," Clarke says, amused, and Wells shrugs.

"It's an early dinner. Let's go."

He pulls up to her house, in his dad's giant Escalade that Wells hates, and makes a face each time he has to drive it. He has a tiny little Kia back home, which he keeps parked in the city garage when he goes on long trips, because Wells believes in making things last as long as possible. His childhood dog, Alpha, lasted for fifteen years, even though his breed usually maxes out at eight. Wells used to buy him the all-natural dog food, at the farmer's market, and he walked him three times a day. Clarke wouldn't be surprised if his car lasted until he was forty.

She glances back at Bellamy in the backseat, looking equally calm and nervous. "You seriously want to meet my mother?"

"I seriously want to meet your mother," he says, and he may look nervous, but he sounds completely sure. She wishes she was.

Part of the reason--most, actually, if she's being honest with herself--that Clarke's been fine so far, with the constant stream of Christmas Eve's, is that it means she hasn't had to face her mother. She _knows_ it's shitty, alright, and she does miss her mom, but. She isn't looking forward to the awkward, stiff hugs and _how have you been?_ s and the inevitable crying that will happen when they both try to apologize.

She is looking forward to the after parts, though. She wants her mom back.

Bellamy takes her hand as they climb up the brick steps of her front porch, which is a little surprising. She'd thought he'd want to be introduced as a friend, maybe. Something vague, that her mother would see through right away, but wouldn't comment on. She'd thought he'd want to take things slow. They still haven't had The Talk--about infidelity, or what it might mean for them, if everything went back to normal. She's not sure she wants to.

Abby doesn't open the door, but Sinclair does, the secretary from her office, and he grins when he sees Clarke. They hug and chat for a moment, and he knows Wells and asks after him, too, and Clarke introduces Bellamy.

Her childhood home feels familiar and new all at the same time, like she just doesn't fit here, anymore. It's been decorated for the holidays, in tasteful gold because her mom's always hated red and green together. Bellamy's taking it all in with wide eyes, grip on her hand tightening with each hardwood floor-and-bow window room they walk through. He balks at the chandelier in the dining room, made of real sterling silver. Wells has disappeared somewhere, probably to talk to Clarke's grandma, and fish for stories about World War II, which he is morbidly fascinated with. He used to make model fighter jets, painted like sharks, the kind the Air Force used in Japan.

Clarke sees her mom speaking with a few people she recognizes in a vague sort of way, from office parties or benefits or other dull, rich people things. She knows this is the moment she should go up to her, and ask for a moment alone.

But instead she grabs one of the champagne flutes lined up in a triangle, like in billiards, downs it, and turns to Bellamy.

"Want to fuck me in my childhood bedroom?"

Bellamy's just taken a sip of his own drink, and promptly chokes on it. Once he's done coughing, he shoots her a glare. " _Jesus_ ," he hisses, bending low so only she can hear. "You can't just _say_ things like that!"

"Sorry," Clarke says, not sorry at all. "So is that a no?"

He stares at her for a minute, jaw working, eyes inadvertantly drooping down to her chest before snapping back up. "Fine," he decides. "But then you _have_ to talk to your mom."

"Deal," Clarke agrees, speed-walking towards the back staircase, where no one will see them. It's around through the kitchen, a boxy little set that she used to spend hours drawing on, when she was a little kid. "If you go down on me, I bet I'll feel _really_ calm," she says pleasantly, and he trips on the last step.

"You're the worst," he grumbles, and once they're in her room, he shoves her up against the door, reaching around her hip to lock it, only to find there's no lock.

"Safety measures," she shrugs. "From when I was a toddler. Apparently I locked myself in by accident once, and they had to break the door off its hinges." She can see he's clearly panicking at the thought of no lock, so she surges up to kiss him, coaxing him into it, until he melts down against her.

"It just means we'll have to be _really_ quiet," she whispers, and he groans into her neck.

"I'm only doing this because you do actually seem stressed," he tells her, ducking his head up under her skirt, pulling her tights down so he can lick up into her, not even easing her into it because they only have so much time.

"Sure," she agrees, folding her hands in his hair. She loves his hair, and she's never letting him cut it. Provided time starts to work again, and it grows long enough to cut.

He works her through the first one quickly, to take the edge off, and then takes his time with the second, until she's grinding up against his face and her legs are threatening to give, which she's pretty sure is his goal in the first place.

By the time he pulls away, she's feeling pretty boneless, and collapses down into his lap with a laugh. She presses her nose into his cheek, little kisses to his freckles, and she's expecting him to take control, to bring her mouth to his. But instead he wraps his arms around her, tugging her in for a hug, so close she might actually suffocate.

Clarke and Bellamy are coming back down the staircase (thirty minutes later, after Clarke returned the favor, and then they fucked on her enormous pink canopied bed, which Bellamy plans on making fun of her for, for eternity), holding hands and grinning stupidly, when they bump into Abby in the kitchen.

She's alone for a change, looking nice in a plain red dress--the kind of red that only moms seem to wear, dark with brown undertones, and when she catches sight of them she freezes.

"Clarke," she says, clearly surprised, which means Wells must not have told her.

"Hi mom," Clarke says lamely, and tries to wave with the hand still clasped in Bellamy's, which Abby zeroes in on, instantly. "Um, this is Bellamy. He's my--" she looks up at him, only to find his face infuriatingly blank. "My Bellamy," she finishes, because she's the smoothest. Bellamy snorts, and tries to cover it up with a cough.

"I see," Abby says. "It's nice to meet you, Bellamy."

"You too, ma'am," he says, oddly formal, and then it's Clarke's turn to snicker.

He presses a kiss to her hair, impossibly chaste. "I'll just let you two have a moment," he offers, stepping down the rest of the steps. "I'll go, uh. Mingle."

"That's something I thought I'd never see," Clarke says, wry, and Bellamy makes a face.

"And you never will." He gives one last nod to Abby, "Ma'am," and then leaves.

"He seems nice," Abby says, once he's gone, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

"Don't start."

"I just said he seems nice," her mom defends, but she mostly seems amused. And then suddenly she looks serious, and it's hard for Clarke to swallow. "Clarke--"

"I'm sorry," Clarke says, at the same time that Abby says "I should have called."

They stare at each other for a moment, and Clarke's the first to crack a smile, after what feels like way too long. She's _missed_ her mom.

"Do you," Abby hesitates, glancing down at her wedding ring, which is still her biggest tell. "Would you like to go see your father?"

Clarke doesn't realize she's crying until the first tears fall, and she brushes them away quickly. "Yeah." Her smile is watery, but there. "Yes. That'd be nice."

Abby goes to get her car from the garage. They'll just be a couple of hours and to be honest, there are so many people here, that it's likely no one will even notice they're missing.

Except Bellamy, who Clarke finds in the corner with Sinclair and Wells, looking only about half as uncomfortable as she's expecting. She comes up beside him, settling her head on his shoulder. He doesn't even startle, just brings his hand down to where hers are clasped around his waist.

"Hey," he murmurs, just for them. Clarke turns her head, hiding her grin in his shoulder. She's just so happy he's _here_ , and with her. She's happy it's him she got stuck with, in all of this. "Everything go okay?"

She nods and loosens her grip so he can turn around and face her. "We're going to visit my dad," she says, worrying her lip because--meeting her mom at some fancy Christmas dinner party is one thing, but seeing her dad's grave? It's not exactly romantic. "Did you--would you maybe want to come?"

"To your dad's grave?" He doesn't look grossed out, just surprised. When she nods he reaches down to fold their hands together. "Yeah, of course. Do we need flowers, or--?"

Clarke reaches up to press a kiss to his cheek, just because she can, and because she wants to. "No. Mom's bringing the car around."

He squeezes her hand. "Lead the way."

The cemetery isn't far--just a twenty minute drive, and there's almost no traffic. Everyone's already where they're supposed to be.

Jake's headstone is somewhere near the middle of the lot, tall and wide and a pretty granite, with neat etching, and Abby's name off to the side, for when she'll be buried with him. She'd offer to add Clarke's, because above all else, Abby Griffin is practical, but Clarke said no. It was hard enough to think of her dad being eaten by worms in the dirt; she couldn't even begin to picture herself, there. Not if she wanted to still get out of bed every morning.

Bellamy hangs back a little, while Abby and Clarke play catch up right in front of the grave. They're talking to each other, mostly, but they both know it's not just for them. Clarke's family has never been very religious, but Jake had been so _big_ when he was alive, that it's hard to think of him as truly gone. He had to leave _something_ of himself behind--there was just too much of him.

They both cry, and there's a lot of hugging, and at the end, Clarke falls back into Bellamy's side as they all walk back to the car.

Bellamy stays the night with Clarke in her old bedroom, but when she tries to deepen the kiss, he pulls away.

"You're mom is literally right next door."

Clarke grins a little wickedly. "Bellamy Blake, are you secretly a prude? Be honest."

Even in the dim lighting, she can see him roll his eyes. "Only when parents are involved. It feels way too high school."

"Did you make out with a lot of girls at night in their bedrooms, in high school?" She's not jealous, more curious than anything. They've talked, of course they've talked, about all the important things, but never high school hook ups, or _weirdest kink you've ever been a part of_ , or anything.

He eyes her a little, like he's trying to decide if she really wants to know. "A few."

Now it's Clarke's turn to roll her eyes, and she swings a leg over his lap, but he steadies her hips, apparently serious about the whole parents thing. "You don't have to be shy about your sexual history, Bell. I know you're kind of a slut."

"I am not," he says, indignant.

"You hooked up at like, every single one of O's parties," Clarke teases. "And if it weren't for the time loop thing, you'd still be hooking up a lot. You'd probably be hooking up right now. In fact, you _could_ be," she gives a roll of her hips for emphasis, but he doesn't try to stop it, and when she glances up at his face, he's looking serious, back at her.

"That's what you think?" He rolls them over onto their sides, noses just brushing. "That if it weren't for the time loop, this," he gestures between them. "Wouldn't exist?"

Clarke hesitates, because--that is what she thinks, isn't it? If she wasn't the only one who still remembered him the next day, what would stop him from being with someone else? She's not even his usual type.

"You don't have to lie to me, Bellamy." She keeps her hands in his hair, just barely scratching the skin of his scalp how he likes, so he'll know she isn't upset about it. And she isn't, really. She's had time to come to terms, and anyway, she has him for now. "I know," she swallows, thick. "I know you don't usually do this," she mimics his earlier gesture. "I know you don't date, or anything."

Bellamy nods a little stiffly, and she's worried she's somehow offended him, but then he ducks down to kiss her, wet and fucking _filthy_ , until she whines into his mouth, and he pulls back. "For the record," he moves one hand up into her hair, the other to her hip bone, and doesn't try to take things further. He's very serious about parents, it seems.

"I don't date because when it comes to girlfriends," he presses a wet kiss to her jaw. "I have a very specific type." He presses a kiss to her cheek, to the skin under her ear, so that she's clutching at his shoulders. "Which is bossy, gorgeous blondes who start fights with me in their pajamas," he slides on top of her so he can kiss her so hard she melts into the mattress. "And protect my sister from asshole frat guys." Her legs spread involuntarily, but he shifts so she's just grinding up against his thigh. "And kick my ass when I forget to eat breakfast." She whines a little at the lack of friction, but he just frames her face in his hands, and tips his forehead to hers. She can see his freckles even in the shadows, dark little pinpricks all across his skin. "That's the only type of girl I want to date." He punctuates it with a kiss, too quick, and she chases his mouth when he pulls back. "And I wanted you before the stupid fucking time loop."

Clarke curls her arms around his neck to bring him closer. "You're the only type I want too," she says, and it's hard to really speak because she's smiling so much, so close to bursting out into stupid, silly laughter. "But you can't just say all of that and then _not_ fuck me."

Bellamy smirks into her kiss. "Watch me."

But to Clarke, that just sounds like a challenge, so she hooks her legs around his hips before he can stop her, and cants them forward, so she can feel the hard press of him, between her thighs. He shudders in her arms, and she moans a little, but he still somehow finds the will to pin her down with his knees.

" _Your mom_ ," he says, but it sounds like a whine.

Clarke grins, brushing the curls from his face, and reaching up to kiss the spot where his cheek becomes his jaw. "It's not like we'll have to face her in the morning."

That seems to convince him because in the next moment, he's lost his boxers and pushed her underwear aside, slipping into her with a groan. He has to cover her mouth to keep her quiet, and he moves in her so slowly she wants to claw at the walls, making it last for as long as possible.

She comes with a gasped out _I love you_ , but his hand is still wet and sticky over her mouth, so he doesn't hear. He pulls her close after, nuzzling, sighing into her neck, and Clarke's last muzzy thought before she falls asleep is _I'll tell him tomorrow_ , because it's only fair he knows.

Clarke wakes up in the morning, and Bellamy shows up ten minutes later. She's pretty sure he only waits so long because he doesn't want to wake her up early, and while she appreciates it, she really wouldn't mind.

He grins when he walks in, crossing over to swipe a kiss across her mouth, routine by now.

"Hey, so--" he starts, and Clarke means to listen, she really does, but the words have been on the tip of her tongue all morning and she probably should have planned it out, but she didn't and now she just can't hold them in.

"I love you."

Bellamy blinks at her, mouth still open. "What?"

"I'm in love with you," Clarke says, because there's no backing out now. "You don't have to--"

"I love you," he says, hasty, almost desperate. "Fuck, of course I love you. Fuck."

"Yeah, it's really obvious," she teases, and he still looks a little dazed when he kisses her, pulling her in by the neck.

"I love you," he says, lips brushing hers with each word. "It's just--I came over to say I was spending the day with O," he pulls back, laughing, and she grins because yeah, she can see why that's funny. "I miss her. But _fuck_ , now I just want to spend all day in your bed."

"Yeah, but you can do that any day," Clarke shrugs, and he lunges for her again. She laughs, shoving him off. "Seriously, go hang out with your sister. I'll skype Wells or something, and be totally lame."

"You are kind of a loser," he agrees, and she hits him.

He's still grinning when he leaves, keeps saying _I love you_ all the way out the door, but Clarke can't help shuttering a little once he's gone. Of course he misses his sister. He probably misses a lot of people--or, at least a lot by Bellamy standards. He probably misses his whole real life. And it's not that Clarke doesn't, she _does_ , but--

She's been enjoying it, existing in this little bubble of _them_. She's liked not having to finish her practice sets over break, or worry about med school, or anything else, for that matter. Obviously, she wishes people actually remembered the conversations they have, and she wishes she and her mom were still all made up, but. For the most part, she's seen the time loop as some fucked up gift from the universe. A private little vacation, with seemingly no end.

But--it's not just about her. Bellamy's stuck, too, and what if he isn't happy about it? What if he starts to hate waking up every morning, with only Clarke for any _real_ company? What if he starts hating everything about this weird, alternate life? What if he starts hating her?

How long has it been, since it's started? Months, a year, _several_ years? How long until it ends?

Clarke does call Wells on skype, and lets him distract her for hours. He can tell she's upset about something, because he's Wells, but he can also tell she's not ready to talk about it, so he doesn't bring it up.

"You can talk to me about anything," he says, as they're saying goodbye. "You know that, right?"

Clarke smiles, fond. "Yeah, I know. I promise I'll fill you in later."

She goes to Octavia's party, meaning to search out Bellamy, like always, but O finds her first.

"Girl talk," she declares, dragging Clarke by the wrist upstairs to her bedroom.

Octavia's room is a lot like Bellamy's; caught between a young girl and a woman, with an old matching bedroom set of plywood painted a sky blue, along with every issue of Cosmo Magazine lined along her bookshelves, forming the shirtless men along the spines. Her closet has no door, instead rows and rows of plastic beads that are tangled up in each other, with a mountain of clothes spilling out like fashionable vomit. There's a series of handrawn portraits, of people and plants and things but mostly Octavia herself, all done in charcoal and obviously by the same person. She calls them her artist, but refuses to mention anything else. Clarke's been waiting for her the secret to burst out of her, as they tend to do. Secrets and Octavia do not mix well together.

O shuts her door and locks it, with the manufactured lock made out of paperclips and a nail file, and then shoves Clarke down onto the bed before sitting cross-legged beside her.

"Okay, you and my brother; spill!"

Clarke stares at her blankly for a moment, before flushing. Octavia looks very, very smug. What is it about the Blake's? "He told you?"

O rolls her eyes. "He said, and I quote," she lowers her voice comically, to mimic her brother. "Clarke and I have been seeing each other for a while. It's serious and I love her, now drop it. I'm serious, O." She looks at Clarke expectantly.

"Um, it just sort of--happened?"

Octavia looks less than impressed. "Yeah, _and_?"

"And, I love him too?"

It's clearly the right answer, because Octavia's whole face brightens. Clarke hasn't seen her smile like that since Atom transferred, their sophomore year. "Good, you should. He's a catch."

"He really is," she agrees.

"So are you, though," O adds, hastily. "And, I mean, he's still an asshole. But he's been pretty great today, so clearly you're a good influence."

"Well, we already knew that, I mean, just look at you," Clarke sniffs, and O kicks her.

She thinks the moment's over, until Octavia clutches her to her in the hall, just before heading back down. "I'm really happy for you," she says, voice muffled by Clarke's hair, but she gets the message anyway. "Both of you."

"Me too."

Clarke finds Bellamy on the porch, with pink in his cheeks and glazed eyes, which means Monty and Jasper must have gotten to him. But when he sees her walking over, he nearly trips over his own chair, trying to stand up so quickly.

"Princess!" he grins, and then noses at her cheek like a cat, once she's close enough. "I still love you."

"Oh, good," Clarke says, amused, letting him pull her into his lap. "I was worried you changed your mind in the five hours we were apart today."

"I don't like being apart," he says, voice low and gravelly from the alcohol, and she feels a rush of blood go to her head. He's still brushing his face against her neck, like he can't stop touching her. Like he's trying to breathe her in.

She's seriously considering just ditching the party, to drag him upstairs, or back to the co-op, but then she sees her.

Raven, walking in the front door. She hasn't seen Clarke yet, and so she slouches even further into Bellamy's lap, trying to be inconspicuous.

"What is it?" he asks, concerned, and she tips her head towards Raven, discretely.

"That's her," she whispers. "Finn's other girlfriend."

Bellamy follows her line of sight, and she watches his eyes grow wide with surprise. " _Raven_?"

Clarke gapes at him. "You know her?"

"Uh, yeah," he flushes, looking a little bit like he wants to die, and she instantly knows what that means. "She, uh--I've seen her around." He winces a little, and she waits for him to finish. "We hooked up once, a few weeks before the original Christmas Eve. I swear I didn't know."

"Bellamy, it's fine," Clarke says, even though it isn't. She's not mad at him, obviously, or Raven--it's no one's fault, really, which just makes it more frustrating, but. She can't help being a little hurt, anyway, illogical as it is. She hates that _both_ of the men she's been with somehow have this girl in common, the one who makes Clarke feel like a coward, just by _being_ there.

Bellamy breathes a sigh against her hair, tightening his grip on her. "If it makes you feel better, she's pretty cool."

Clarke goes tense, and she knows he can feel it. It's one thing to know he and Raven have fucked, but knowing he's hung out with her? Enough to think she's _cool_? Clarke isn't really sure what to do with that information, and she _hates_ not knowing what to do. "No," she says. "It really doesn't."

"I didn't mean it like that," he promises, pressing a kiss to the back of her head. "I meant, I think you might like her, if you got to know her."

"I'd really rather not," she says, clearing her throat, and then goes to stand. "I'm going to get a refill."

But Bellamy keeps his hold on her, and refuses to let her up. "No," he says, petulant.

"Bellamy," she starts.

"No. You're going to go inside and avoid me for the rest of the night, and I don't want you to, and I don't think you want to, either. I hooked up with Raven once. I think you guys might get along. But I _love you_ , and if you want there to be sides--you versus Raven Reyes, I'm Team Clarke. Always."

Clarke readjusts so she can face him, and even if he's still a little drunk, he looks so earnest it's hard to bite back her smile. "I don't want there to be _sides_ ," she huffs. "I just--she probably hates me. She and Finn were together forever."

"If she hates you because her ex is a dickbag, then that's on her," Bellamy declares, righteous as ever, always ready to go into battle. This time, Clarke doesn't hide her grin, and she leans in to kiss him.

"I really am just going for a refill," she promises. "I'll be right back."

"Pinky swear," he demands, and she does, and only then does he release her.

She's grateful he only had her give the regular pinky swear, instead of the Blake one, which involves twisting each other's pinkies until one of them gives in. Everything the Blake's do is violent, she's discovered, and usually Octavia wins. Their rock-paper-scissors matches often turn deadly, and when one of them call shotgun, they have a wrestling match in the parking lot. _Jinx_ is only won via a harsh game of scorpion--they each have the scars on their knuckles.

Clarke's still in the kitchen, in line for the impromptu bar, when Raven slides up beside her.

"Blake said you wanted to talk," she says, in place of hello, and Clarke mutters a curse under her breath.

"Fucking _Bellamy_ ," she grumbles, and then offers Raven a shaky smile that the other girl doesn't return. "He wants us to be friends, I think."

"Yeah, I got that. It is cool to see you've moved on, though. I was kind of hoping Finn didn't fuck you up, too."

Clarke just sort of stares for a minute, because of all the things she'd expected to hear from Raven Reyes, _that_ was not one of them. She even seems mostly sincere about it. "No, he didn't." She worries her lip a little and considers not telling her but, fuck it. It's not like she'll remember this conversation in the morning. "Actually, I was mostly fucked up over you."

Raven looks a little thrown. "Me? Why?"

Clarke shrugs. "I thought I'd ruined your life, or something. I mean, you moved here for him."

"Yeah," Raven says, and Clarke appreciates her honesty. She's clearly the type of person who means what she says. "But it's not like he's the only thing in this town. Plus, now he can see how successful I am, without him."

Clarke laughs, and sees her finally crack a smile. "I wish I'd talked to you sooner," she says, and she means it. It's only been five minutes, and she already likes her better than Finn. Back in August, if she'd had the choice between Raven and Finn at that mixer, she would have taken her home, instead.

"Me too," Raven agrees, snatching two solo cups, and handing one off to Clarke. "But it's cool to finally meet you--if I'd known it was you that Blake was talking about, I would have called you up. _Twice is fate_ , you know?"

"I thought it was _twice is a coincidence_ ," Clarke grins, and Raven shrugs, taking a long pull from her drink.

"Give me your phone," she orders, and then puts in her number, under the bird emoji. "Let's get the third time right, at least."

"Yeah," Clarke agrees, parting at the door. She watches Raven fade into the crowd, and thinks _I want you to remember this. I want to know you. I want tomorrow to come._

Bellamy has disappeared by the time she gets back to the porch, and she can't find him in any of the rooms on the first floor, so she heads upstairs. The bedrooms are all empty, and the bathroom is occupied by a couple who didn't bother locking the door.

She finds him on the roof, on his back with his knees bent, just like that first night. She crawls out over to him, curling up in his arms when he opens them.

"I know O's told you about our mom," he says, quiet, like he doesn't want to disturb the night. Clarke nods against his chest, propping her chin up to look at him. "She's still pretty angry about her. About how she died."

"Bellamy, she o.d.'d on heroin in your bathroom."

"I know," he sighs, but he doesn't sound upset, just resigned about it. "She was fucked up--she was manic, bipolar. She heard voices, and never took her meds. She was a mess."

Clarke stays quiet for a moment, making sure that he's done. "O didn't tell me that part," she admits, and he shrugs, jostling her head a little.

"There's a lot she still doesn't know. She was pretty young for the worst of it. By the time she was old enough, mom was mostly just high, not crazy." He cards his hand through her hair for a bit, and she lays her cheek down on his chest, so she can hear his heart beating. "My point is, my mom fucked up a lot, but. I still loved her. I think I always will."

"She was your mom," Clarke agrees. She gets it.

Bellamy tugs her in even tighter, and she leans up to kiss him, slowing it down. When she pulls back, just a little, he says "I want to do better."

"You will," she says, firm, and he smiles.

"I applied to the university," he says, sudden, and Clarke just blinks for a moment, letting his words sink in. "I was supposed to find out if I got in, in January, but," he smile turns dry and hollow, and Clarke's stomach twists.

Bellamy could do so much, _be_ so much, she knows, if the universe would let him.

He smooths his hand down her back, and digs into his pocket, pulling out the ring. She grins as he puts it on her finger.

"You don't have to get it every time," she says, even as she smiles at it, twisting it around. She loves the feel of it, the weight on her hand.

"If tomorrow ever comes, I'm getting you a new ring," he says, mild, and when she whips around to look at him, she finds his face clear, and waiting for her.

"I have a new wish," she declares, settling back in his arms as he groans.

"That's what started this whole mess, you know," he teases. "That first night, you wished you could stay here forever."

"Yeah, but I just meant with you," she says, defensive, and watches his eyes go dark.

"You don't need magic for that, Clarke," he leans over to press a kiss to her collar bone, exposed by her dress. She runs a hand through his hair.

"I know that, so now I have a new wish."

He smacks another kiss to the top of her breast, and she laughs. "Okay," he lays down. "Go ahead."

Clarke leans her head back against the cool tile, finding his hand and tangling their fingers together as she stares up at the stars. Below them, the alarm goes off, and the cheering, the ridiculous punk Christmas carols.

"I wish tomorrow would come," she says, closing her eyes, like the last time, _praying_ it'll work. "And the day after, and the day after that. I want a million different moments." She blinks her eyes open, twists her head to find him watching her. He lifts his hand to her cheek, into her hair. "I want them all with you."

He grins, leaning in to brush their mouths together, just barely a kiss. "That sounds doable."

Clarke wakes to dark golden light streaming through the window and landing on her face. She squints to see through it, rolling over in the sheets, cotton sticking to her sweaty, naked skin. There's a weight on her side, and something cool on her finger. When she picks up her hand to check, she sees it's the little crown.

And when she opens her eyes a little wider, she sees the weight is an arm, tan and wide and freckled, fingers just brushing her stomach, warm to the touch. She remembers, now--they'd fallen asleep on the roof and woken sometime in the night, crawling back in to collapse in his bed. They'd had slow, sleepy sex, before he tugged her in like he always does, as tight as she can be.

Except--she never wakes up with him.

Clarke glances at the hard plastic digital clock on his bed stand, and sees 11:43AM blinking out at her in bright red letters. She rolls out of bed, too frantic to care that she's running around naked, as she sifts through their discarded clothes, for her phone. She unlocks the screen and sees it's on two percent battery.

But then she notices the date. DECEMBER 25TH

She looks up her contacts list, and sees a brand new number, with a bird emoji in place of a name.

Clarke can't really help the laughter that bubbles up, manic and giddy. From the bed, there's the sound of sheets rustling as Bellamy grunts his way into consciousness.

"Clarke?" She turns to find him squinting out at her, like he's not sure why she's here.

"Morning, sunshine," she grins, walking over. She holds her phone out to him. "Guess what day it is."

She sees the exact moment that it clicks in his head; his eyes go wide, and he snaps his head up to stare at her. "Are you serious?"

Clarke bites at her lip to keep from laughing hysterically. "Mhm."

He laughs, loud and victorious, pulling her down on the bed with him, pressing his grin to her hair. "Merry Christmas, Clarke."

"I never want to hear that phrase again," she says darkly, and he laughs against her neck.

They're both leaning in, and she's pretty sure there's about to be some hardcore celebratory making out, when there's a sudden bang on the bedroom door, like someone's just kicked it.

"Presents, bitches!" Octavia yells through the wood. "I mean it--get your asses down here!"

Bellamy groans, settling his head on her shoulder, and Clarke laughs. "Come on, Bell--presents first, sex later." She can feel him watching her as she pulls on her clothes from last night, and piles the mess of her hair up on her head. Eventually, he slides out and tugs on his jeans, and a shirt from the depths of his closet.

"Why can't we do both?" he grins wolfishly, but when he tugs her in for a kiss, it's soft. She feels his hand drop down, to play with the ring. "I meant it," he says, pulling back.

She nods. "So did I, but--we've got time, Bell."

He beams, and she tugs him out of the room, before his sister can start murdering them with the candy canes she's sharpened into shanks.

"You promised me a million moments," he reminds her. "It'll be hard to beat the last ones."

Clarke grins. "I think we can manage it."

They do.

 


End file.
